


House of The Rising Sun

by amybeegood



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: A Metric Shit-ton of Angst, A Royal Space Soap Opera, A/B/O, Alpha!Kylo, Alpha/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe but with a Canon-flavor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Author Can’t Be Held Responsible, Betrayal, Biting, Blood Kink, Blood Magic, Blood and Gore, Bodice-Ripper, Breeding, Brutal Violence With Fantasy Elements, But Dark, But fun, But he's soft too, But like dark, Childbirth, Clothes, Conspiracy, Corruption, Crying, Dark Kylo Ren, Dark Leia Organa, Dark Rey (Star Wars), Dark Reylo, Death, Did I mention the blood kink?, Did I mention there would be a bit of a sexy blood kink in this story?, Dominant Kylo Ren, Dynasty-Building, Emotional Constipation, Emperor Kylo Ren, Empress Rey, Enemies to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers Hold My Goblet, Everybody Has a Hidden Agenda, Everything is so dramatic, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Filthy, Forced Marriage, Forced Pregnancy, Full Smut arrives at Chapter Nine, Graphic Violence, Hades and Persephone Overtones, Hades and the Underworld dark, Hate Sex, Heat Hate Sex, How are these two in charge of the galaxy?, Human Disaster Kylo Ren, Hurt/Comfort, I Have No Willpower, I haven't even started on how manipulative Leia is, I mean....isn't it about time I wrote one?, I promise, I said enemies to lovers right?, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), It'll be sexy, It's All About The Supreme Leader's Hair, It’s All Fun, It’s Fake And In Space, Knifeplay, Knotting, Kylo Ren Has Mommy Issues, Kylo Ren and Rey Are Not Related, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Kylo had to learn it from somewhere I guess, Kylo is a Biter, Kylo is a Royal Asshole, Kylo is a hands-on kinda guy, Kylo is an asshole for a lot of it, Kylo sorta thinks he's a god, Kylo takes his leadership style seriously, Loss of Virginity, Magical Elements, Manipulation, Mating, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mayhem, Miscommunication, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Obsession, Omega!Rey, Oral Sex, Over the top ceremony, Pining on a Galactic Scale, Poison, Politics, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Kylo, Power tripping, Powerful People Behaving Badly, Public Displays of Power that Don't Go as Planned, Rey is pretty much a hot mess too, Rey is the only one who gets to call him Ben, Secret Deals, Settle In For a Ride, Sexual Coercion, Sexually Inexperienced Rey, Slight Lactation Kink, Smut, Smut of the First Order, Spies, Strong Language, Stubborn Rey (Star Wars), Sweet and Dark and Angsty, TRUST NO ONE, Termination of Pregnancy, That's Right I said What I Said, Threats of Child Kidnapping, Touch-Starved Reylo, Treason, When he isn't being a dick, Who are we to argue with the Supreme Leader?, You Really Don't Want to Be Executed for Treason, but pretty, dysfunctional family dynamics, interplanetary war, non-con elements, plenty of smut, pomp and ceremony, smutty smutty smut, so much plot, war and violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:08:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 209,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21512809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amybeegood/pseuds/amybeegood
Summary: A canon-esque, Omegaverse, Reylo/Hades and Persephone version of the War of The Roses. But in space.*I am taking a SHORT break on this and will resume updates after I finish Creep*
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Kylo Ren/Ben Solo
Comments: 3130
Kudos: 3005
Collections: #CelebrateBenSolo - A Ben Solo Fan Event





	1. The Finding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The Reylos](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=The+Reylos).



> Part One: Dark Blood Rising, Chapters 1-20  
> Part Two: A House Divided, Chapters 21-38  
> Part Three: Rise of Destiny, Chapter 39-59*est
> 
> **a note on the Elements of Non-con tag: The VAST majority of this story falls in the range between dub-con and enthusiastic consent. So. I've tagged the fic for non-con elements, and I will warn you ahead of time when they appear, but really I feel it is inaccurate to classify the whole fic as non-con when it isn't a major theme.
> 
> Find me on Twitter [@beegood_amy](https://twitter.com/beegood_amy) for updates to my ever-growing smut collection and occasional tweets. XOXO!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part One: Dark Blood Rising

## PART ONE: DARK BLOOD RISING

# Chapter One – The Finding

_If you ever run from me it better be to the afterlife..._

Vise-like pain wrenches through her, compressing everything she knows, her entire existence, into one tiny dot in the universe, while her corporeal body, seemingly detached from her spirit, grunts and heaves and sweats to bring forth new life.

_…I’ll paint the skies with fire and blood…_

“Yes, good! Good, here he comes…keep pushing…”

Rey groans and knows in the marrow of her bones she will be dead in minutes. Unendurable agony wraps around her midsection, and vicious tentacles of pain rip down her back and thighs until her muscles shiver uncontrollably.

She is dying, and she has to _say_ something, _do_ something. But she cannot speak under the onslaught of another contraction. She can only follow the inescapable demands of nature and the midwife, vaguely telling her to _push_.

_Keep pushing…_

She does, and she is going to die.

This baby is going to kill her.

If not the baby, then surely his father will if he ever finds her again.

_…if and when I find you…_

“One more! One more, and you’re done, my lady!”

_…because it will only be a matter of time…_

She bears down with every scrap of fight left in her, exhausted and ready to die if only the pain will stop. If the pain will stop, then she can be free of it…free of _him_.

_…I’ll make you wish you were there…in the afterlife._

“Yes, good!”

Suddenly, a vast pressure releases, a tension slips free from her body, and Rey sobs weakly as the relentless agony vanishes, the absence of anguish leaving her panting to collapse onto the sweat-dampened sheets beneath her.

“Is…? Is he okay?” she gasps, her voice hoarse from a full day’s unquiet labor.

She hears a cry, a tiny wail of life, and a tear slides down her cheek.

The midwife’s beaming smile is infectious. “Yes, my lady. _She’s_ perfect.”

“A girl?” She stretches out her arms eagerly, no longer trembling with weak fatigue, but with a renewed strength of purpose.

_A baby girl. A miracle._

Kalonia places a slippery little bundle on her chest, and Rey knows this is the love of her life blinking serenely up at her. Rey stares back, awestruck, taking in wise little eyes, the perfect lashes, and a tiny cupid’s bow mouth.

She will never own a more unspoiled moment.

“A beautiful princess, madam. Like her mother.” The midwife holds a bio-med scanner to the baby’s foot before Rey might stop her.

Even through her hazy emotions, Rey knows objecting to a scan would be foolish in the extreme.

Galactic law mandates an immediate scan of an infant’s blood, even in remote outposts like Takodana. Not following the law will draw more suspicion than an unusual scan.

Rey holds her breath, unable to tear her gaze from her newborn daughter. _His._

“Everything’s normal, and baby’s an O-negative. Congratulations.”

_Good. O-negative. A rare blood type but not unheard of._

_Not like mine._

Kalonia drapes a blanket over them and returns to the foot of the bed. Rey senses a vague awareness of Kalonia instructing her to expel the afterbirth, of the old woman’s cool, gentle hands pressing on her belly, of careful touches and hushed, wet splashes…but those things are of no moment. The greater part of Rey’s attention is captivated by the tiny baby in her arms, so impossibly frail and delicate and perfect, the most beautiful little thing –

“What will you name her, my lady?” The midwife hovers between Rey’s bent knees, efficiently cleaning away the remnants of childbirth and chattering lightly as if Rey’s whole world hasn’t just halted mid-spin.

Because she cannot move her eyes away from her newborn infant. She has never seen something so pure, so amazing. She’s never had someone belong solely to her as this baby does.

Outside, the sun glows, just rising through the rugged window on her left, a fiery golden-orange streaking across the sky to color the horizon with warmth.

And hope.

 _Hope is like the sun_ , someone once said to her.

“Hope,” Rey replies softly. “I’ll call her Hope.”

“Ah, that’s lovely, madam. Truly it is. Hope.”

She spends the next week recovering, and her midwife, the only person in light-years who knows Rey’s true identity, stays nearby to gather food and stock firewood.

“I need to leave soon, but I think you two will be all right,” Kalonia assures her, nodding to the sleeping baby in a basket at Rey’s side. “I will gather one more armload of wood, so you are well stocked, and you have rations aplenty in the cupboards.”

Rey nods sleepily, her hand outstretched to touch the baby’s basket. For now, they are cozy and safe in their little hut in the middle of nowhere, on a remote planet, far from danger. Far from him.

_You ever run from me, you better run to the fucking afterlife…_

Rey sits up. The baby sleeps next to her, but she will wake soon enough and want feeding. Kalonia has disappeared.

Long shadows flicker over the single room of the hut. The fire has died to a glowing bed of coals, still radiating warmth, but not for long.

Blinking, she eyes the firewood by the hearth. Not much there. Not enough to get them through the night.

_…grind the pillars of the galaxy to dust…rip planets from the sky…I’ll fucking do it, I swear…_

A slight chill creeps through the lightweight linen of her nightgown, freshly laundered the day before she started her labor. Chores had been a welcome distraction at the time, as she made last-minute preparations for the arrival of her child in between increasingly painful contractions.

She’d needed to force her thoughts away from _him_ and his threats. She’d needed to keep her mind focused on the hours and days to come. On surviving.

_…if you run…if I ever find you again, I’ll make you wish you were dead. I swear it by the gods._

Goosebumps prickle her skin, and Rey checks Hope’s forehead for a chill. The baby is warm enough, swaddled in the softest cloths.

Still, she should add more wood to the fire, if any can be found.

Kalonia promised she would bring more, but perhaps she’s stacked it outside so as not to disturb them while they sleep.

Rey moves carefully to check, her body still sore but much recovered from the birth, as Kalonia had promised.

_I swear it by my blood. And yours._

She shivers. Full dark will set in soon.

Rising from bed and moving to the doorway, she peeks outside to scan the ground for Kalonia’s wood.

But nothing is there. Kalonia is not there.

She looks to the basket on her cot. Hope sleeps peacefully in her swaddling clothes, her sweet, tiny mouth pursed in a gentle smile. _She will be all right for just a minute._

Moving quickly, she calls out for the midwife but hears no reply.

How odd.

Perhaps Kalonia took a fall in the nearby woods. Rey is torn, loathe to leave Hope alone, but even less willing to bring her newborn baby into the woods at night.

But Kalonia might be out there, possibly injured.

Making up her mind after a brief internal debate, she slips on a pair of old rubber boots that were abandoned by the cabin’s former occupant. The boots are clunky and overlarge under her billowy nightgown and she must take care not to trip and injure herself.

She glances back at the hut one last time before deciding to make a swift search of the perimeter of the forest.

_Hope is fine. Hope is fine. Hope is fine._

“Kalonia?” Rey calls, moving into the dusky shadows. “Are you there?”

Ten yards down the starlit trail she finds a small pile of scattered wood. It can only have been Kalonia’s doing.

The air floats quietly around Rey, still and cool in the rapidly falling twilight. Nighthawks and local insects begin their evening chorus, welcoming a heavy, waning moon to loom over the horizon.

Nobody else exists. Not for miles and miles.

She scoops the wood into her arms and makes her way back to Hope with all haste.

Her breasts tingle uncomfortably, a sure sign the baby will soon wake and be hungry.

She rushes to the hut’s roughly hewn door and drops the wood into a messy pile, shucking off her boots as speedily as she can at the sound of her baby’s distracted fussing inside.

 _S_ _he’s alright, not crying yet_ –

Rey steps through the door and slams to a halt, frozen in shock.

He looks out the window and she cannot see his face, but Rey would recognize the set of his broad shoulders, the unnervingly appealing scent of him, anywhere.

He holds himself impossibly still. At first, she doesn’t understand why. Then, her eyes flash to the basket – _empty, the baby_ –

“Put her down!” Rey rushes in, then stops as he turns to face her. He braces the child against his chest, bundled under his chin. One huge hand cradles the baby and one rests threateningly on the grip of a blaster.

“Your mommy isn’t as smart as she thinks she is,” he coos against Hope’s soft little head, his voice the same slight rasp underlying a heavy baritone, just as she remembers. Thick and deep and gentle and bitter, like honey mixed with the blackest coffee.

But, in contrast to the silky undertones of his voice, his eyes sear into Rey’s with stark threat, sparking with barely restrained violence.

Hope looks so tiny against him. Rey’s instincts rapidly revert to primitive, every muscle in her body tensed for a fight.

She looks on helplessly as Hope's head bobs back and forth over her father’s battle armor in search of a nipple.

He ignores the baby’s increasingly frenetic cries, keeping his gaze locked on Rey.

_He’ll hurt her. Don’t try anything._

His eyes hold hers, a predator hypnotizing his prey. This enemy is not to be trifled with. A cold-blooded, pitiless man who will stop at nothing to get his way.

His nostrils flare, catching her scent, and his eyes gleam with deadly triumph as she acknowledges her predicament. As she does, his mouth twitches a hint of a humorless smile.

“Please don’t hurt her,” Rey says softly. Her blood thrums with tension, mixing adrenaline and fear in her veins.

He lowers his voice and his scorn is unmistakable. “You think I would?”

She’s offended him, but she cannot stop herself from saying, “She’s not a…Golden Blood. Not like me. Nothing to you.”

His eyes darken to obsidian, and his lip curls into a cruel sneer. “ _Nothing?_ To _me?_ ”

Though he appears disgusted and arrogant and dangerous and unpredictable, he is the child’s father and a small part of Rey admits his demonstration of outrage, however feigned it may be, might be justifiable. She swallows a pang of guilt.

As if reading her thoughts, he says, “This is my _daughter_ , princess. A daughter you tried to _hide_ from me.”

Venom and hurt and something truly frightening flickers behind his dark, beautiful eyes. “I warned you. I said I would find you and so I have. You ought to consider yourself fortunate I didn’t need to resort to much violence. This time.”

He brushes a finger over the baby’s head, and Rey’s stomach clenches at the sight of his huge, dark hands touching their helpless daughter. He might crush the tiny baby’s skull as easily as caress it. Rey’s pulse kicks into a double beat. She knows all too well how brutal he can be.

“I’ll do anything. Anything you want, _please._ ”

“I know you will,” he states, confirming her worst suspicions.

“You swore you would never lay a hand on me again without my permission,” she cries recklessly. “Or are your vows so easily made and cast aside when it conveniences you?”

“I need not be reminded of _my_ vows by the likes of you, princess,” he snarls. “I will not touch you. Nevertheless, you shall return to Coruscant with us. Immediately.”

His eyes shutter into chips of black ice, coldly revealing his true intentions.

 _He means to take our child and use her as a hostage._ A rather excellent way to control the child’s mother.

Dizziness sweeps through her.

 _Coruscant_. His seat of galactic power, heavily populated and filled with loyalists to the Church. A gilded cage where Rey has no friends or allies to help her...

And, Coruscant means a reckoning. Perhaps a trial. Possible execution.

No. He might not lay a hand on her again, but he will _kill_ her. He’s already promised as much.

_Especially if he ever finds out._

A hot tear slides down her cheek and she breathes, “I…can’t go back there…not now."

“Well. Then I shall take my leave. I suspect I’ll find you there soon enough. If you ever wish to see her again,” he says coolly. She cannot scent anything but absolute determination from him.

_He does not lie, then. He means to take her._

“You would separate a newborn from her mother?”

In answer, he moves as if to go and she casts her pride away, falling to her knees and clutching at his armor-clad legs.

“Please. _Please don’t take her!_ ”

He pauses, jaw clenched, and Rey finds no mercy in his icy regard.

_He’s furious. Oh, gods help me._

Tears stream down her face as she kneels, pleading wordlessly into his unforgiving countenance, chiseled from stone.

“Please,” she whispers. “Have mercy.”

The baby squeaks, growing more agitated, and he presses a soft kiss to her downy head.

 _He’s drawing this out just to torment me,_ Rey thinks bitterly.

It is working all too well, and her heart thumps with growing panic as Hope becomes increasingly demanding. The child’s desperate, hungry mewling is virtual torture to a new mother.

Hope begins to cry in earnest and the baby’s father remains unmoved. Rey knows she should not show weakness before this man, but instinct wars inside her to do anything, _anything_ for her child. She can sort out the rest later.

Later.

“I’ll go with you…but… _please_ …” She hates the pathetic quaver that enters her voice at a time when her intuition demands a show of strength in the face of her greatest foe. Kylo will only continue to ruthlessly exploit her weaknesses, as he is doing now. “Please,” she whispers again, shuffling closer to clutch desperately at the hem of his tattered war cape.

He stares down his long, regal nose with haughty disdain.

“Get up. You humiliate us both, groveling in the dirt like a peasant,” he finally bites out. “You will behave in a manner befitting your royal titles, princess.”

She stands on wobbly legs, instantly obedient, and he hands the baby over with obvious reluctance.

Hope’s fussing turns to tiny grunts as she scents her mother’s breast nearby. Rey’s fingers tremble at her baby’s impatient squawk.

“You may feed her here before we leave.” He speaks so softly he is almost inaudible, not shifting his eyes from the infant. “I’m not _such_ a monster. Regardless of what you think.”

Rey’s eyes flash in ready disagreement, but she grits her teeth against an angry retort. Nothing can stop him from simply killing her and taking the baby or killing them both and moving on with his life.

However, he does nothing more sinister than seat himself in the room’s only chair, his huge body overwhelming the space with vague menace, despite his relaxed demeanor. His battle armor, scarred as sin and black as deep space, only emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders and does nothing to mitigate his intimidating presence.

She finds it strange to be in the same room with him after so much time.

But she can ponder her internal musings later.

For now, she settles herself on the bed and opens her nightgown one-handed, exposing an engorged nipple to Hope, who seeks the source of sustenance with eagerness. A sigh of relief escapes Rey as the baby latches on and begins to suckle, making tiny snuffles that Rey would find utterly charming in any other circumstances.

She leans against her pillows and watches Kylo with wary distrust, wondering how many of his personal guards linger nearby and what he’s done to Kalonia.

“How’d you do it?” he eventually asks, eyes riveted on mother and child almost hungrily. “Escape me? This time?”

Rey shakes her head, sensing a relative safety in deigning not to answer him, at least for now. Still, he presses her with his gaze until she looks away, unable to meet his dark observation for more than a few terse seconds.

He considers her a moment before telling her, “We must hurry if we are to return to Coruscant in time for our coronation.”

 _Our_ coronation. But that means…he has no intention of killing her.

No. He intends something far worse. A coronation means a crown.

In her case, it will mean a collar, too.

She shifts against the pillows, acutely aware of her husband’s unrelenting scrutiny.

And even more conscious of the shape of the sheathed, jeweled dagger against her lower back, hidden under her pillow since the day she arrived on this godsforsaken planet.

She always knew deep down he would find her. And, unlike the first time they met, this time she is prepared.


	2. First Blood

# Chapter Two – First Blood

**Two Years Ago –**

Kylo inwardly braces for an unpleasant confrontation, although he intends to observe his most courtly manners, for now.

Still, he pulls his mouth into a frown, reminding himself that according to custom, a baring of teeth is considered vulgar in the extreme and will be found particularly threatening to the unmated Omegas in his chambers. He overrules his strong desire to exert his full willpower and intimidate them into telling him what he wishes to know and tries for stern and only slightly threatening, instead.

As he expects, two young women await him, having just been retrieved from the desert planet Jakku, brought here so he might interrogate them personally.

_And one most likely set to marry my uncle in the morning, the traitor. The Golden Blood._

Kylo’s annoyance flares at the sight of them standing by the chamber’s only window watching nonchalantly as the stars streak by in blurred motion while his ship carries them to Coruscant.

In the hasty departure from Jakku, his medical personnel were unable to determine which of the two is the one he sought. The girls obviously dosed themselves with blood alterants just prior to their capture.

_Likely my mother’s doing, that scheming bitch...I will welcome news of her arrest with much pleasure._

Blood alterants pose a problem, however. Any alchemical substance in the blood will interfere with a bio-med scan and significantly delay Kylo’s ability to identify his quarry, giving his damned mother and her irksome Resistance time to regroup and possibly attempt another rescue of the Golden Blood.

And Kylo has no intention of allowing that to happen.

He strides farther into the softly lit room, suddenly furious and beyond frustrated with his war council for falling for the most obvious of ploys. He did not obtain these prisoners without great cost to his own ranks and he assures himself there will be plenty of his ire to be passed around _…_ more than enough for everyone responsible to receive a healthy serving of it.

Just as soon as he ensures he really has _her_ this time.

He has lost count of how many times he’s silently cursed his mother in the last hours and wonders if this is another false alert. Perhaps these girls are decoys meant to deceive him, so the real Golden Blood might evade him once again.

But his fury evaporates quickly when he catches an elusive scent, very faint under the suppressants being vented into the room but alluring and definitely present and _different_.

The young women pretend they do not notice his entrance. Both are excellent play-actors and they do a fair job showing indifference, although he knows they are not.

A dark satisfaction shoots through him as they turn as one at his approach. Traces of emotion cross their faces, but he can see when they comprehend exactly who he is.

_Ah. Good. They know me. Or think they do._

One of them is very petite, with shiny black hair braided around her head. Her dark brown eyes appear black in the light, and she’s quite pretty, with full, high cheekbones and a heart-shaped face. Kylo can make out a lushly curved figure beneath the billowing drapery of her nightclothes. For all her lack of stature, she is a beautiful young Omega and certainly fits his expectation of what a Golden Blood should look like. Her gaze holds uncertainty and fear, and it is the fear that satisfies Kylo the most.

The other does not bother to hide her contempt and this grates on his already beset nerves. She is taller than her companion, although still much shorter than he, and her body is leaner and more gently curved than the other girl's. _This_ one’s eyes snap with insolence, ready to fight, and her dark brown hair is mussed and half-undone as if she’s been dragged from her bed, which Kylo supposes is entirely accurate.

She would also be strikingly beautiful if not for the hostility emanating from every pore of her golden skin. Something about her riles his temper, and he tamps it down.

Upon first glance, Kylo might assume this to be the guard of the other, so fiercely do her hazel eyes meet his gaze. But he has a feeling…

_This is the one. My uncle’s fiancée._

She wears a bedgown similar to the other's, but hers is held in place at the shoulder by a jeweled brooch.

When Kylo speaks, she turns back to the window in a credible imitation of aloof dismissal.

_Even better. She’s afraid of me._

_She should be._

“What are your names?” he asks, keeping his voice low and courteous but forceful. He drills his gaze into the smaller one, compelling an answer all too easily.

“I am Rose. This is Rey. We are but handmaids to the Golden Blood Omega. We have been taken in error, my lord, and we ask only to be returned to our families who surely fear for our lives, by now.” Rose’s words are well-spoken and elegantly pled, and he allows her to finish without interruption.

He doesn’t believe a word of it.

Still, he cannot scent anything but the barest hint of distress, and they stand so closely their scents are mingling.

The taller one, Rey, remains quiet, and he wonders briefly if she can smell his scent and what she might think of him. But as drawn to her as he is, he needs to ensure their identities before they get too far into deep space.

If neither are whom he seeks, then there is no point in yet returning to Coruscant.

He reminds himself he is annoyed and adds an edge to his voice, “Which of you is the Golden Blood? Do not lie to me, or you will find yourselves quite sorry.”

When Rey answers, it is with haughty condescension. “Did you not hear Rose, my lord? The Golden Blood is not here. We are of no value to you. I fear you have wasted your time. And a great many men.”

Much is said by the fire in her eyes. And Kylo decides perhaps his best, most decorous manners will not be useful to him under the circumstances.

Through the window behind them, the stars streak by in a smear of brilliant white light, and Kylo steps forward, leaning close to Rey so he might sniff at her, obscenely. Rose gasps at his blatant rudeness, and Rey flinches away in revulsion. He knows he’s being unbelievably crude, but he crowds close and sniffs again, unable to help himself from inhaling deeply a second time.

Legend proclaims the scent of a Golden Blood can render an Alpha insensate upon first meeting, and Kylo has always scoffed at the idea. Until now.

 _Gods' teeth, that’s delicious_.

His jaw tingles as his mouth fills with saliva, and he finds himself grateful for possessing the foresight to chemically alter the atmosphere in these chambers as a precaution.

He forces himself to breathe once, twice, calming his inner turmoil as he catches another wave of her scent and barks, “You there! Soldier. Attend me.”

Rey tries to appear unruffled, but she can feel Kylo Ren’s penetrating golden eyes run over her figure as if cold water drips over her skin.

Until this moment, she has not been afraid, not truly.

_This Alpha, he’s huge. A ruthless monster. Do not vex him._

The soldier guarding the door approaches at Ren's command and removes his helmet respectfully. He bows with grace, despite the armor he wears.

“Yes, Supreme Leader, how may I serve you?”

“Kneel, soldier.” The young man falls to his knees, instantly. He is quite handsome, dark of complexion and eyes, and possessing short-cropped hair and wide, plump lips.

An Alpha, Rey realizes.

She observes with growing dread as Kylo stares at her, not the soldier, whose eyes remain downcast. Rey can see a bead of nervous sweat trickle down the young Alpha's brow under the tension in the room.

“Unholster your sidearm and hold it to your temple.”

A blank look falls over the guard’s face, but he does as instructed.

“Stop it!” Rey growls, instantaneously grasping Ren’s intentions. “That’s _sick_ , it isn’t–”

Kylo interrupts, asking sleekly, “What is your name, soldier?”

“If it pleases the Supreme Leader, my name is Finn.”

Kylo nods, eyes glittering ruthlessly into Rey’s. “Finn? Will you pull that weapon’s trigger if I so order it?”

“Yes, milord.” Finn’s reply is immediate and definitive. Rey’s blood runs cold.

“Why is that, Finn?”

“Because I live and die at your will, milord. If it pleases you for me to pull the trigger then I shall.”

“Finn if my guest does not reveal her identity by the time I count to three, you _will_ pull the trigger on that weapon. Do you understand?”

“Yes, milord.”

Finn stares expressionlessly at the wall just behind Rey, but she can see he doesn’t want to die.

“One.”

“You _barbarian_! Stop this!” Rey shouts. Rose’s eyes dart anxiously between Kylo and Finn, but she doesn’t speak.

“Two.”

Kylo lifts a brow as if surprised she’s going to make him –

“Thr-"

“I am the one you want!” Rey glares at Kylo with all the bitterness she can muster.

“You are the Golden Blood? Formerly affianced to my uncle, Luke Skywalker?” Kylo’s voice is pure silk. But the heated victory in his gaze makes Rey want to slap him.

“I am.”

“Soldier, you may holster your weapon and return to your post.”

“Yes, milord. Thank you, milord.”

Finn stands even more quickly than he knelt, bows again, and returns to his post just outside the door. But before he can replace his helm, Kylo calls him back and Rey’s heartbeat kicks back up.

_Gods, what now?_

“Yes, milord?”

“Finn, for your excellent service and unflinching loyalty, I would have you rewarded.”

“A reward is not required, milord.” Finn sounds hesitant.

“Nonetheless, I wish to present you a token for your service.”

“If you wish it, milord, then I am deeply honored.”

“Finn, this young woman’s name is Rose, and she most recently finds herself without a position in my household. I would make a gift of her to you.”

“No!” Rey cries, outraged.

Kylo overrides her objection with a quelling stare. “Rose herself has demonstrated remarkable faithfulness to her _former_ mistress, and I admire nothing so much as loyalty. She will provide you whatever service you wish, or I will _personally_ oversee her punishment. See her talents are well used.”

Kylo’s gaze flickers obliquely over Rose, who bows her head in submission.

Rey’s heart pounds and her cheeks heat with indignation. Her adversary has not only made a rather blatant demonstration of power but also stripped her of her only loyal servant and friend.

Rey momentarily regrets saving Finn the soldier’s life, now knowing Rose is to be sent away with him and likely never returned to her.

Finn swallows, clearly uncomfortable under Rey’s hostile stare, but he only murmurs, “I am ever grateful, milord and I thank you for such generosity.”

“You may leave us, Finn, and take Rose back to your quarters.”

“Yes, milord. Um. Come along, Rose.”

Rose looks helplessly at Rey and Rey nods. “Go on, Rose. Just know if word ever reaches me you have been mistreated, I will…I’ll…”

Her threat dies on her tongue, as she realizes she has no power here, no way to make demands or enforce justice. Kylo’s mouth twitches, but he says nothing. He doesn’t need to.

Nevertheless, Rey glares hard at the soldier Finn, who briefly bows his head in acknowledgment and turns to leave. Rose has no choice but to follow him tearfully out the door.

“You will find things go easier for you if you work with me, not against,” Kylo purrs with polite admonition, but Rey is not fooled. She senses he is like to be at his most deadly when his voice takes on that velvety-soft tone that sizzles ever-so-lightly with unchecked authority.

She fights a wave of nausea from her wildly fluttering nerves as the door to the suite swishes closed, leaving her alone with her enemy for the first time.

Captured by the First Order mere hours ago, Rey spent most of her subsequent imprisonment in these chambers alongside Rose, after having been scanned for blood type and designation and offered not even a drop of water or an explanation of what will follow.

The well-appointed star cruiser could belong to anyone, but Rey knows by her luxurious surroundings she is aboard _his_ personal ship. She can tell he is altering the atmosphere with aerosolized suppressants.

Such extravagance can only belong to the Supreme Leader himself.

_I can hardly scent a dratted thing…it must be why I feel so disoriented._

She catches another whiff of him and steels herself against an instinctive cower. His is the same enticing scent she noticed immediately upon being locked in these chambers. His personal quarters, if she has to guess.

_Powerful. A mighty Alpha. None other like him. Strong._

Now, under his fuming scrutiny, she grows acutely aware of just how very far she is from her friends, Leia, and the Resistance. Even worse, something is _off_ , something about the Alpha is giving off a wrongness, a visceral, almost otherworldly danger, although hushed and fuzzy. This is _most_ alarming because Rey cannot decipher the source of the threat, but she knows in her gut it exists.

A tremor of fear ripples down her spine. She has never encountered an Alpha like this. Not that she’s met very many. The last one was Kylo Ren's uncle, Luke Skywalker, who, while formidable in personality if not stature, seems relatively harmless in comparison.

Kylo Ren does not resemble his uncle in the slightest. He's far too tall and broad of shoulder, muscled in the way of a warrior, not a politician. Ren's forbidding countenance is framed by a thick mane of dark, shoulder-length hair, currently swept back from his high forehead as if he's been running a frustrated hand through the inky locks all day. His full lips might be considered soft, lush, even, were they not pressed into a grim line as he returns her regard.

Although Rey has been made well aware of his appearance in the media over the years, he does not remotely resemble in person the man she’s envisioned for the past year and more.

Since receiving the Supreme Leader’s summons, Rey has imagined a cold, bloodless monster in a mask chasing her through abstract dreams and nightmares with single-minded determination.

But in person, Ren seems on the verge of restlessness, not cold as a statue _…_ as if the lifeforce inside him is at constant risk of bursting into storm with the merest breath of encouragement.

And he is much bigger than she’d imagined, easily dominating the room.

Rey does not need full access to her senses to understand the cold fury radiating from him, lending his presence a vague darkness to swirl like a shadowy cloak around them both.

She can practically taste it, the menacing dark.

She shrugs, unsure how to respond to this Alpha’s growing vehemence. She is used to being treated, if not reverently by other Alphas, then at least courteously. Any other would not dare to emit such open wrath in her presence.

“Care to explain this?” Kylo coolly tosses a necklace at her feet.

She recognizes it right away. Shortly after being brought aboard, she’d discreetly discarded the thing after activating the tracking beacon inside.

“I don’t owe a creature who abducts me any kind of explanation.”

Her short reply seems to only further infuriate her captor, although he holds himself stiff and still far too close, in Rey’s opinion.

She feels rather smug she was able to get the necklace on board; if her kidnappers had known what it was when they’d taken her, they _never_ would have brought it along.

Resentment rolls off him as he makes the same connection.

“That _thing_ inside your necklace cost me three dozen warships and thirteen thousand armed troopers,” he bites off with icy accusation.

“Well. You shouldn’t have kidnapped me, then. You _bastard._ ”

The acid in her voice is caustic enough to etch glass, and she is pleased to see him stop in his tracks, and reevaluate her with narrowed eyes. It strikes her that he probably isn’t used to being treated irreverently, either.

Her brief reprieve evaporates, however, and he smiles so faintly she might have missed it had she not been watching so attentively.

Finally, he moves, leaning close again, forcing her to back away until the cold window presses uncomfortably against her bare shoulders.

“It’s not kidnapping if I’m just enforcing the law, _Omega_ ,” Kylo replies with cruel conviction. “ _Personally_.”

She gasps aloud. To use her designation so freely when they barely know each other is a breach of manners beyond offensive.

 _He means it to be so._ _He’s trying to offend me._

He stands much, much closer than necessary, obviously unafraid to use his size and scent to threaten without words. His hand moves up to cup her face, as if he means to stroke her fondly, familiarly, but she shies away. At her resistance, his jaw clenches and he grips her chin roughly, forcing her to meet his fathomless eyes.

His nostrils flare again at her scent, and Rey’s insides turn to water.

_Alpha is huge, big, strong…obey him._

“Any other homing beacons hiding on you?” His question is civil enough, delivered curtly and with no outward malice – but it directly contradicts the utter menace in his gaze.

His eyes rake another slow crawl up and down her body as if mentally stripping her naked.

“No.”

The fingers gripping her chin bite in, flexing in demand of an honest answer.

Instead of coming across as confident, her denial is irritatingly wobbly.

He closes the distance between them until his long nose presses against her ear, soft puffs of air releasing a hint of pheromones against her skin until her knees grow weak.

“No!” she insists.

He hovers a moment, content to make her wait, to make her hold herself with him in intimate proximity.

Finally, he whispers against her scent gland, “I’d believe you, _Omega_ , if you haven’t already evaded capture more times than I can count. I don’t think I trust you, my dear.”

She whimpers, unable to stop the melting heat from sinking into her at the warm brush of his breath against her neck. No one, ever, in her entire life has touched her like this. He’s dreadfully close to her scent gland and she’s paralyzed by the rush of sensation and sickening anticipation of what might happen if he _does_ touch it.

Still gripping her chin, his other hand moves to her shoulder, where her gown is held in place by a jeweled brooch.

“You would wear an ornament of mourning on the eve of your wedding?”

He clucks his tongue mockingly and slides a long, warm finger beneath the gathered silk, while the other hand around her neck strokes crudely over her scent gland in a demonstration of unchallenged possession.

She cries out, a weak, pathetic sound. It’s too much, too personal, too… _something._

His touch renders her frighteningly weak. Weak and something else she cannot name.

She would try to move away but for the growing fear he might snap her neck with a flick of his wrist, and so she holds herself immobile with increasing effort.

But his hands are so _warm_ , one resting beneath her chin yet implying complete control, the other lightly caressing her shoulder under the fabric of her gown.

Suddenly, he unpins her brooch.

Her gown droops to fall at her waist, baring her chest, and he takes a long, deliberate moment to gaze slowly over her nakedness. She tightens her jaw, refusing to cover herself, knowing he wants her to feel helpless.

Eventually, he breaks eye contact so he can examine the piece of jewelry, then abruptly drops the brooch to the floor and grinds it under the heel of his boot. It makes a sadly final crunch as the communication mechanism inside snaps.

His pitiless smirk becomes a sneer, and his eyes rake over her again, lingering on her exposed breasts.

“I expect we thoroughly wiped out the traitors, murderers, and rebels you call friends, although in doing so, as you said, I also lost a good many men. Nevertheless, if there is anyone left who might be tempted to try to fetch you back, which I doubt, they’ll be too late, if they come at all.”

He turns away, taking a moment to further crush the brooch under his heel and give Rey a chance to hastily cover herself.

“Surely you can guess why you were taken. Can’t you?”

She knows _exactly_ why. Leia explained it in some great detail before leaving her lightly guarded with only Rose to watch over her on Jakku.

Still, Rey must play along.

Running from his summons is a serious crime. And aligning herself in betrothal to Ren’s own uncle is a separate, additional crime of treason, also punishable by death.

Rey puts a tremble to her voice. “So you wish to kill me?”

“Ah, don’t be stupid, my dear. If I wanted you dead, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

She feigns another guess, even as his repeated endearments make her heart pound. “You wish revenge upon your uncle?”

He shakes his head _no._

“Do you _really_ want to play this game?”

_Leia guessed correctly._

An Omega with blood-of-gold would be irresistible bait to the likes of Kylo Ren.

She is one of the rarest Omegas in existence, possibly the only one of her kind in the known galaxy. An Omega with blood-of-gold, long ago known as Rh-null. After biological warfare nearly stripped humankind from the galaxy in a devastating plague, Rh-null blood was found to contain a cure.

It was because of Omegas like Rey that humans were able to survive and replenish the population after The Great Devastation, many centuries ago.

Galactic law was originally scribed to protect her and her kind at all costs, even exempting Golden Bloods from execution, whenever possible.

And Rey knows the law quite well.

In answer to his own question, Kylo flatly explains, “I am obligated to enforce either your execution or your mating bond, in accordance with the laws of the Galaxy. Which would _you_ prefer?”

He shoots her a murderous smile that tells her his question is purely rhetorical.

There is no mistaking his implication.

She lifts her chin and smiles defiantly back, throwing herself into the role she agreed to play so long ago.

_For the Resistance. I will do anything. Whatever it takes. No matter how daunting, no matter the cost._

“You intend _…_?” _…to claim me?_

She cannot yet bring herself to speak the last and put herself on such familiar terms with this virtual stranger. But she does not need to say it aloud.

“I find myself relieved to see you are not as unintelligent as I’d previously assumed,” he agrees. “I _do_ intend to see you bonded and mated and bred. Immediately. To me.”

She tries to think of the people he destroyed in the process of securing her capture. Resistance fighters, men and women ordered to come to her rescue and who died in the attempt, unknowing pawns to be sacrificed at Leia Organa’s command.

Ren said he lost thousands upon thousands of troops, which means the Resistance will have been all but decimated.

 _No matter the cost,_ Leia had said.

They had to make it real, make it _believable_ or Kylo Ren would never have bought it.

Rey knows the name of every member of the squadron assigned to come for her. She knows the names of many, many others who likely died this day, as well.

She will light a candle in the High Church at Coruscant in their honor, so they might know their efforts were not in vain.

Rey and Luke Skywalker’s marital alliance could have established a chain of power that might have swayed the balance of the Free Systems of the Republic, drawing a few more systems to join the small group of planets not yet under the First Order’s stronghold.

But Rey’s alliance to the Supreme Leader will land her in the very heart of the First Order.

Where she can tear it apart from the inside and guarantee the enemy's complete annihilation.


	3. A Good Chase

# Chapter Three – A Good Chase

_A man loves nothing so much as the chase unless it’s the part that follows right after. The trick is to give him a worthy hunt…so long as you let him catch you…eventually._

Her teacher’s words come ringing back but are quickly overridden as Kylo Ren’s words intrude with even more force.

_I do intend to see you bonded and mated and bred. Immediately. To me._

It takes Rey a full minute to absorb this last bit.

“You mean you intend to claim me _after_ the traditional year of purification?” she prompts, hoping she misunderstood him.

“I think not.” His chest expands with far too much self-assurance and Rey again becomes aware of his size. “Or have you already forgotten you’ve had your year?” he murmurs. “Do you not remember, my darling? When you so traitorously prepared to wed my uncle in a direct contradiction to my summons?”

She scrambles for an argument, but he continues, “You should count yourself lucky I found you in time. You might be in your wedding bed right about now. Where I’m sure my uncle would be doing his poor best and failing not to disappoint you with his undoubtedly dull _appetites_.”

Embarrassed at his blatant reference to her _wedding bed_ , Rey retorts hotly, “And you believe yourself such a prize in comparison? _You_? With the manners of a…a knotheaded…nerf-herding…beastly…dog!”

Instead of growing angry at her insult, he tips back his dark head and barks with laughter. “Gods, a _knotheaded dog_ , really?” Amusement lights his tawny eyes and he chuckles with impertinent familiarity, “Was it my mother who taught you the art of cursing, I wonder? I find myself curious to see if I can improve upon your education over the course of our alliance.”

His reaction is so unexpected it has a strange effect on her. Suddenly she feels as if she’s swallowed a swarm of bees or perhaps took a landing just a little too quickly in her old speeder back on Jakku.

The air between them lightens with his lingering humor, and Rey tries to pay attention to his words and not the faint, luscious scent of him wafting so temptingly to her nose.

His mother did not instruct her on how his mercurial charm might occasionally disarm her. The idea of him putting his hands on her to beget an heir sends lovely, terrible chills down her spine.

It was so much easier to commit to her task when she did not know what utter discipline she would require of herself to resist his allure and be strategic.

He draws a speculative eye over her again and proclaims, “I would see us bonded sooner rather than later, and upon which time our union bears fruit, I shall be crowned Imperial Emperor as my grandfather was before me. I will abolish the Free Senate and reinstate the Old Laws of the Empire.”

“The Old Laws? And the Lottery system? But, you cannot! It is tantamount to slavery!” Rey sputters, although his boldly declared intentions are not unanticipated. “Omegas are still trafficked in unchecked numbers on the outskirts of the galaxy, surely you know that? The Lottery would only–”

She breaks off her quarrel having nearly given herself away. His eyes flash with displeasure, and a small voice in the back of her mind warns her to remember her place.

His good mood evaporates like mist, and he snaps, “The Lottery ensured the prosperity of the human race and brought balance to the Galaxy. I _will_ see it restored and establish a dynasty to rival the Empire at the height of its power. And in doing so, I shall finally put an end to this godsforsaken war…the very _minute_ you produce an heir for me.”

He senses her hesitation and pushes on. “Politics aside, you cannot argue that a match with me is far more advantageous than anything my aging uncle could offer you, which would only be a life of banishment and strife at best. With me, you shall be a mother to royalty, gifted with holdings and titles beyond what you ever might have attained elsewise, despite your precious blood of gold.”

This statement irks her, waking her oft troublesome and impulsive tongue. “You ought to take care, my lord. _My_ blood is the most _sacred_ on this ship. Not yours.”

He does not argue, but simply reinforces his point. “I _will_ take you. I will do it as thoroughly and _irrefutably_ as I can manage, and you may rest assured that even if I had no other reason to claim you than to infuriate my mother and humiliate my uncle, I would still proceed with very great relish.”

Upon hearing his stark promise, a thrill of fear courses through her and she replies again without thinking.

“You may claim me, even force me against my will, but you will never own my heart, nor my thoughts.”

“I disagree,” he rumbles with a malevolent thrust of his chin. “I expect I shall continue to occupy a great many of your thoughts from now until the very end of your days.”

His hearty confidence brings her up short and he paces close again, crowding her, although she refuses to back away this time.

“I _will_ lay claim to what I need and what is mine by right of adverse possession or otherwise," he breathes. "As for your heart? You may keep it. It is of no consequence, so long as you understand it only continues to beat because _I_ allow it, and know that every drop of that precious blood coursing through your veins belongs to me. From the moment you stepped foot on this ship, I already owned all the parts of you that matter. This–” He caresses the gland at the back of her neck until her breath catches and her knees threaten to buckle. “–is merely the deed to my _property_.”

His hand moves down to press lightly against her, low on her belly, then lower still, until she whimpers and gasps under the foreign warmth of his touch.

He whispers heatedly in her ear, “And _this_ will ensure an indisputable line of succession. I _will_ establish a new order, a Royal House to rule over my dominion for the remainder of eternity. In you, I shall sow a line of heirs to hold my throne until the end of time. That, my darling, is _my_ will.”

He removes his hand but he's still too close. His delectable scent so overpowers her senses, she momentarily ducks her head.

He observes her quietly, deliberating. “I've been granted a special dispensation by the High Priest Snoke himself. You and I shall be bonded upon our arrival in Coruscant. I cannot afford to wait another year. You may continue to practice your Jedi religion, so long as it does not interfere with or contradict my own purposes or matters of state.”

“Such magnanimity, my lord,” she cries, “that you allow me to continue practicing a religion to which I have already devoted my entire life. Gods forbid you insist I turn Sith and find myself suddenly called to eternal devotion to the Church instead of you!”

“If you wish to join a Sithian convent, I will not stop you so long as you serve my purposes, first. You may turn anything you like after producing my heirs, and in the meantime, you will show me the proper respect to which I am due.”

His eyes glint severely. Rey’s heart sinks at the determination emanating from him.

_Gods damn him, he is too stubborn._

Until this point, he has maintained a cool aloofness, a cruel mask. But she catches his scent, like smoke mingled in the air, a sure sign of incoming anger.

_Ah. This must be the ignition of his infamous temper._

He surprises her again with how quickly he wrangles it. She is momentarily impressed by his ability to bring himself into line and realizes he has had several years’ practicing diplomacy and self-control in the time since his mother’s spies were last able to report.

She tries a different tactic, changing her tone from argumentative to pleading. She needs to buy herself a few moments so she devise a plan of action.

“My lord, I’m simply asking for more time. You cannot _claim_ me until after the year of purification. I…I have been heat-fasted as a Jedi and I would not forsake my religious vows.”

This takes him aback and his scrutiny becomes raptor-like. “A Jedi heat-fasting? Surely they do not still _practice_ those barbaric traditions?”

Rey nods her head, slowly, her face burning red at such frank conversation. She watches his face flood with astonishment and pity, then almost immediately wash over with hunger.

The naked _possessiveness_ she perceives takes her breath away, particularly as it means Leia once again guessed correctly.

Her blood-standing alone already makes her a tempting acquisition, but the heat-fasting would ensure she is irresistible. Kylo Ren will never let her go, not if he believes his power over her would be unassailable. 

While as barbarous as he proclaimed, the practice of heat-fasting ensures an Omega’s maidenhead remains intact until her husband takes it. Finding a heat-fasted Omega is almost as rare as a Golden Blood, simply because most Omegas endure several heats before finding a suitable mate, and subsequently lose the physical evidence of their virtue to the penetration of a finger or other implement when they first present.

A truly untouched Omega is a valuable prize for any Alpha who might claim first blood. If not meaningful for personal reasons – most Alphas tend to be possessive and jealous, even of inanimate objects – an Omega’s virgin blood is worth a king’s ransom, as it is rumored to contain magical properties that will bind her to the Alpha so completely he can compel her to his will.

Rey can think of endless reasons why this idea might be alluring to a person such as Kylo Ren.

Kylo looks as if to pursue his line of questioning when the panel to the suite swishes open once again, and a dark-haired, solemn-eyed young man in uniform enters and bows low.

“Forgive the interruption, milord, but you asked to be notified the moment we have her.”

“My mother has been taken into custody?” Something flickers in his eyes, but it is not surprise. It is triumphant pleasure and Rey’s heart drops at the news of another blow.

“Yes, lord, and headed to Coruscant just behind us, although their transport was damaged and they must stop nearby to repair it.”

_Damn and damn, they have Leia._

“I must say, Mitaka, I most eagerly await conversing with my mother after so much time. Until we meet in Coruscant, you will communicate with her ship to ensure she is kept comfortable, so long as my guest here remains well-behaved. And send word ahead to have the very best cells in my dungeons prepared for her imminent arrival.”

“Dungeons? Your own mother?” Rey bursts out as Mitaka bows and leaves the room to follow his master’s orders.

“That _woman_ ,” Kylo snarls, “has been more thorn in my side than a _mother_ for many years now. She’s safe enough and you need not concern yourself over her welfare. I would not harm her. Not when I might use her to help me smooth over certain political _things_. Besides. She will make excellent collateral for your good behavior. Won’t she?”

Kylo resumes watching her like a predatory bird. Rey scowls back.

In the midst of their stare-off, her stomach lets out a loud, unladylike rumble. She has not eaten since many hours before she was taken.

At the sound, Kylo’s brows wing upward. “Were you and your servant not provided refreshment?”

She shakes her head and another, louder growl emerges from her midsection. Her cheeks flame at the noise, but Kylo does not mock her. Instead, he scowls and mutters, “I will see that lapse in hospitality reversed immediately. You may be my captive, but I would have you treated as a guest, despite our unconventional meeting.”

Rey glares at him, certain she has never in her life met someone with such excellent proclivity for euphemism.

“If by _unconventional_ , you refer to the matter of ripping me from my bed mid-sleep, holding me captive like a common felon, and disbursing my maid to your soldier as if–”

“But you _are_ a common felon, my dear. Had you turned yourself in when I first summoned you, such would not be the case. Alas," he smiles, "you will remain here, in my own quarters, until we reach Coruscant. I trust you’ll find the journey comfortable.”

“Here? In _your_ quarters?” Rey asks, suddenly aghast. “But, where will _you_ sleep?” She does not realize the alluded invitation in her question until the words have already escaped her.

His smile widens into a wicked grin, and this time hot syrup drips through her veins.

_Gods’ blood, he’s attractive. When he isn’t behaving like a maniacal tyrant._

“With _you_ soon enough, my darling,” he purrs, and Rey immediately revises her opinion of him. He only has one speed and maniacal tyrant is it.

He spins on his heel and exits the room. The soft swish of the panel doors only adds a note of finality to the scene.

It’s been nearly an hour since he left, and Rey waits nervously, too famished and too haunted by a pair of pretty eyes to try to sleep.

As soon as he left the chambers, she set about examining every inch of her temporary prison, looking for an escape hatch or pod, or a control panel or tool that could be useful in helping her make contact with the Resistance. Her search is fairly nerve-wracking, as she has no idea when her captor might return, no way to tell time, and only the constant stream of bright-white hyperspace slipping by in the window to gauge her whereabouts.

Ren’s quarters are spartan, his clothing and other possessions likely sealed behind the locked panels on one wall of the chamber. Other than his bed, which looks unslept in, and a table and chairs near the window, there is nothing. A small door reveals access to a small, efficiently laid-out wash closet with inset fixtures.

She might try to smash open the panels to his clothes storage, but she suspects if she does, she will only meet with his ire and still not have a way to communicate with the Resistance.

The Resistance. Likely setting up base somewhere on D’Qar as planned. Rey wonders again how many were lost in Leia’s desperate gamble to place her into position, and she strengthens her resolve to play the role for which she has so studiously and painfully prepared. 

When the door panel opens unexpectedly, it startles her. To her dismay, it is once again Kylo himself, this time bearing a tray loaded with covered dishes. He has removed the heavy outer tunic he wore earlier in favor of something more lightweight and casual. His hair is damp and swept back from his forehead, and the sleeves of his tunic are rolled up to his elbows as if he washed in a rush.

 _He hurried back so I might not go hungry for too long,_ she realizes.

She wonders why he does not have a servant to do something so mundane as bring dinner, but he seems to sense her question and tells her, “We find ourselves shorthanded, having lost a number of people in the process of acquiring you.” 

He sets the tray on the room’s only table and efficiently lays out dishes and utensils. Rey’s mouth waters and she isn’t sure it’s entirely the food's doing. His scent is beguilingly seductive. 

_Which is good. It is something you can use, something you can work with if only you can keep your head on straight._

“Come. Eat.” Although politely spoken, his words carry endless command.

Unsure of herself and very hungry besides this, Rey decides to play submissive captive for now. He does not seem so terrifying, not such a monster as he invites her to sit at the table and dine with him.

He holds a chair for her, an unexpectedly chivalrous gesture. She seats herself as gracefully as she can manage, flustered by his gracious manners. The meal is presented in the typical custom of those who exist in high-class society, served so the diners must eat from the same dishes.

 _En famille_ , it’s called. It means _with family_ or, in this case, _in the style of family_. She knows this is not meant to signify actual family or even intimacy.

Simply put, many customs around food and dining are holdovers from long ago, established after The Great Devastation, when so many diplomats and politicians and even royal family members were subject to being poisoned by rivals. It became so problematic, as they grappled to form a system of government in the aftermath of near-extinction and collaborated and fought to rebuild and devise structure from the chaos, people began serving food from a shared plate or bowl as a sign of good faith. The habit spread quickly and became adopted by nobles and commoners alike.

From this also evolved the practice of _primum edere_. The lowest ranking person at the table must eat first, then so on. This means the most powerful person in the room eats only after all the other guests have started.

Leia told stories of huge banquets where those of higher rank would eat a small meal before dinner to tide them over while they waited their turn.

From Leia’s descriptions, Rey knows it is still not uncommon, especially during more formal occasions, for members of higher rank to swap their plates with lower-ranking diners at the table, ostensibly to thwart poisoners, although usually done anymore in a blatant show of power and at times where tensions between opposing parties are high.

Reminded of this, she feels disinclined to concede to her hunger just yet.

_He can eat first and be damned. He is far too arrogant and this is a trait I can begin to resolve right now._

She feels his eyes on her, waiting, a twist of smug wryness playing about his gorgeously sculpted lips. Her stomach emits an enormous rumble and he laughs, sending a spike of heat into her belly and lower where he touched her earlier, _when he said_ …

Without prelude, he lifts his fork and takes an elegant bite. He does not break eye contact, and she is so fascinated by the sight of him eating, she momentarily forgets she is hungry.

His eyes twinkle into hers as he takes an unhurried sip from the single goblet, meant to be shared between them. Softly, he licks his lips, then purses them with a blatant invitation, and she suddenly remembers she is starving.

She begins to eat, perhaps not quite as gracefully as he, but with a dainty efficiency that gets the food where it needs to go. It does not occur to her until halfway through her meal when a higher-ranking person takes a bite _before_ one of lower rank, it might be interpreted as a deliberate insult, as if to say, “I do not fear you,” or even worse, “You have no power here.”

And now, if she says anything, she knows he will only turn the accusations around until she admits out loud she believes he outranks her. Annoyed, she holds her tongue.

He eats methodically, and if he appreciates the fine foods and delicious wine, Rey cannot tell. She cannot help observing, rather surreptitiously, how his long, lean hands tear a chunk of bread into pieces before he drizzles the bits with oil and eats them with his fingers.

Like the rest of him, his hands are large, aristocratic, and vaguely menacing. He keeps his nails trimmed short, she notices, not grown long like the other, albeit few, nobles of her acquaintance, indicating his lifestyle is not one belonging to a cosseted prince.

In fact, everything about the man indicates a preferred inclination for simplicity over ostentatiousness. Another discomfiting surprise.

The Skywalkers have long said to be descended from the gods themselves, and Rey wonders if her dining companion believes it to be true, despite his austere lifestyle and manner of grooming. She thinks if anyone might believe himself to be a god, it would be him.

Perhaps divine authority radiates from the confidence stamped in every line of his face, but his handsomeness is tempered with enough humanity to win over the unwary. His hair, worn long and loose past his collar, is glossy black, thick and wavy. In his high cheekbones and starkly angled jaw, she can see an arrogance borne from his bloodline.

A few beauty marks – _angel’s kisses_ they are called, and another indication of heavenly favor – dot his face and neck and forearms, drawing her furtive gaze. Even more alarming is how her attention is so irresistibly attracted to the way his throat and jaw move with mesmerizing sensuality as he chews and swallows.

She is conscious of her staring but has trouble pulling her awareness back from him. She cannot help but notice his posture, how he holds himself with an assurance that tells her he is quite used to getting his way.

But it is his eyes that transmit a ruthless ownership over all he surveys.

Those eyes can flash with flecks of gold and amber, she knows, but now appear nearly black in the low lighting, dimmed for the ambiance of their meal.

In his overpowering presence, she feels helpless and perhaps even small. Physically, she is lean, taller than many women, and she has never been soft, per se. But, as they both reach for a piece of bread at the same time, she notices the relative size of her hands compared to his, how his wrists are near twice the thickness of hers, how his forearms are corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair, how the length of his fingers surpass her own by more than a knuckle-length.

After several minutes of quiet scrutiny, she finally breaks the silence between them.

“You really mean to…claim me? So quickly?”

Kylo’s eyes linger on her mouth. “I do.”

She suppresses a shudder as a wave of unknown weakness flutters through her. Inwardly, she chides herself for becoming so easily flustered and heartily wishes she never brought it up.

_This is no game and he is a dangerous opponent. You must be stronger than this._

Leia warned her he will not hesitate to employ either charm or violence as he deems necessary. And Rey witnessed just hours ago his willingness to wield death and mayhem, made particularly evident when he commanded his own soldier to hold a blaster to his head and pull the trigger if she did not reveal herself.

Her spirits dim again at the thought of Rose, given away like chattel, a costly loss, indeed. But Leia and others have made greater sacrifices this day. And Rey did not sense any outright cruelty or hostility from the young Alpha soldier. He will treat Rose with kindness, if nothing else, she hopes.

Kylo has stopped eating, likely catching the scent of her distress. His gaze wanders over her gown, which no longer droops immodestly from where he removed her brooch but now is tied in a rudimentary knot at her shoulder.

“You cannot escape your fate. We _will_ marry, mate, and breed. It is best if you kill the past now and bow to destiny, as we all must.”

She does her best to ignore him and finish her dinner, his words echoing disturbingly in her mind. Not for the first time since they met, she imagines what exactly he might do in the course of marrying and impregnating her.

_I will do what must be done. I will not falter._

But first.

_Leia has been taken, and if I can get word to the Resistance, perhaps we might find a way to hold off her gods-be-damned son from gaining too much power too soon. The Resistance needs time to regroup and rebuild._

_They need to know where to find Leia._

Yes. If she can help the Resistance locate and free Leia, then they can perhaps formulate a plan to delay the inevitable. She might yet give Kylo Ren a bit more of a chase.

If not to ensure her position, then certainly to give her rapidly beating heart time to recover from her wildly spinning thoughts and apparently out-of-control hormones.


	4. The Catch

# Chapter Four – The Catch

As they finish their meal in simmering silence, Ren grows quiet and pensive.

_He’s tired. Worn out, as I am._

She notices the deep bruises under his eyes and wonders if, like her, he has not slept for many, many hours.

 _He is likely exhausted from plotting my capture and commanding his armies to wipe out a good number of Resistance troops_ , she thinks bitterly. _He had a busy day even before coming in to question and intimidate us and giving Rose to that guard._

She scowls, trying to reconcile what he’s done with Rose to the kindness he’s shown in making the effort to wash up and bring her something to eat.

Rey takes a final drink from the goblet only after ensuring her lips touch the opposite side of the rim from where he sipped. He catches the gesture but merely flashes a mocking grin before standing and neatly stacking their plates and utensils on the tray.

He gives her an arrogant once-over and a softly uttered, “Sleep well. I shall return in the waking hours to break our fast.”

Holding her tongue for once, she bows her head in compliance. He does not need to know she has no intention of lying on his bed and trying to sleep.

During her earlier explorations of the room, she managed to deduce the location of the ductwork piping suppressants and blockers into the room. While they dined in silence, she thought on it and concluded the vents must be a separate, _secondary_ system to life support, which makes sense on a smaller ship like this. It is more efficient to chemically alter the atmosphere in a single chamber of the ship, and less expensive, too.

Although she is a prisoner, she is thankful Ren chose not to hold her in a suppression chamber, the only other real alternative to transporting an Alpha, or Omega in her case, without worrying about undue _hormonal_ interference. However, she is a valuable political pawn and must be shown the courtesy of her rank.

This is likely the reason she is being held in Ren’s personal quarters instead of a cell in the brig or even worse locked in a coffin-like suppression chamber.

By the time she is able to break free from his quarters, she’s practically dead on her feet with fatigue. But her desperation to alert the Resistance to Leia’s whereabouts overrides even her fear of what Kylo Ren might do when he inevitably “catches” her again.

For now, this is an excellent opportunity to take advantage of her circumstances, and she will not waste a chance to thwart Ren, despite her eventual, planned capitulation. As it is, the ship is understaffed, according to Ren’s own admission.

_I must try to help Leia. If I can contact the Resistance, I can tell them where to find her._

She peels his blankets from his bed and twists them into long ropes, then presses the bundled fabric along the perimeter of the room over the secondary ventilation system. She doubts anyone will be monitoring the system, so long as life support is maintained.

It will take a little while for the air to clear, during which time Rey manages to work up distressed tears. It is not difficult, as all she needs to do is think of Rose somewhere on the ship and likely frightened and surrounded by strange Alphas.

Rey can tell the ductwork is effectively blocked when Kylo Ren’s scent grows stronger in the room, even though he is not present. It is deep and elusively enchanting, musky, like the sandalwood oil she uses in her bath and tinged with sun-warmed leather and spice. Her toes curl in her slippers and she does her best to meditate and resist burying her face in his pillow for more.

Instead, she musters a tearful cry, collapsing onto the floor near the door panel.

Right away, an Alpha soldier standing guard opens the door and rushes in at the sight of her crumpled form.

“My lady! Miss? Are you…?”

She needs his helmet off for her plan to take effect, so she hides her face in the crook of her arm and mutters something unintelligible.

He removes his helm, though he hesitates to touch her. But she just needs him to lean close enough.

She can tell when he catches a whiff of her.

“Come closer.”

He kneels obediently at her side and his eyes glaze over.

“ _Breathe_ ,” she encourages.

The Alpha hovers and she sits up, reaching for his scent gland before he can stop her. His mouth gapes as she strokes a thumb over a raspy spot on his neck, softly, watching as his eyes roll back and he moans.

His eyes grow dark, dilating as her scent encompasses him. The scent of a Golden Blood can render an Alpha senseless, under the right conditions. It helps if she can catch them by surprise.

“Help me,” she pleads, adding a tremulous warble to her voice for good measure.

“Yes. Anything, my lady.”

“I need to find access to the nearest sub-space communication system on this ship. Where is it?”

She strokes his gland again and he shudders and answers immediately, “There is a command panel at the end of the corridor, my lady. You…smell…so…good.” He inhales, clearly enraptured.

She smiles gratefully up at him and he grins back.

“What’s your access code to the command panel, Alpha?”

He tells her and she commits it to memory before asking one last thing.

“And where are the escape pods located?”

The Alpha smiles helpfully, and Rey listens with her full attention.

Kylo Ren was right to take precautions against her. Not that it will help him now.

“Supreme Leader, I apologize for disturbing you, but… _ahm_ , there’s been an incident.”

Mitaka’s voice breaks through his sleep and Kylo sits too quickly, thumping his head on the empty bunk above him. It takes him a moment to remember he is bunking in the troops’ quarters since the very large and comfortable bed in his suite is occupied.

He glares at Mitaka.

“It’s…the girl, my lord, she’s…”

“What girl?” Kylo snarls, mind whirling. It’s either Rey or the maid Rose, but he has a sinking feeling this has something to do with Rey.

“What incident?” he tries again, annoyed because he knows he probably doesn’t look much like the ruler of the galaxy or even very commanding or intimidating at present.

_This is her fault. Her and my mother’s._

He’s barely slept since leaving Coruscant to retrieve the Golden Blood. He blinks blearily up at Mitaka in a silent demand of an immediate explanation.

“It’s your prisoner, my lord. She’s apparently escaped your quarters and is making her way to one of the escape pods through the ship’s access ducts.”

“What? How?” Kylo roars, suddenly quite awake and not at all pleased to hear this news.

Mitaka looks slightly ill but continues with staunch resolve. “The guard outside your chambers milord, he’s been…um…overpowered…”

Mitaka swallows nervously and the dread on his face tells Kylo there’s more.

“And?” Kylo crams his feet into his boots. He stands and hastily tucks his shirt into his trousers.

His intended bride has an apparent very low regard for her physical well-being.

By the time Kylo makes his way to the bridge, he is spitting fury and making no effort to hide it from his terrified subordinates.

_When I get my hands on that troublesome Omega…_

“Has she actually _entered_ any of the escape pods, Commander?” Kylo demands as he strides to the central command station.

“No, Supreme Leader, we blocked them off as soon as we discovered-”

“And _why_ have we not sent someone after her?”

“We tried my lord, but she’s managed to, uh, take command of the ship’s life support, my lord, and…she's demanding-”

Kylo’s patience dissolves on the spot. “And how is she communicating with us, Commander?”

“She’s broken into the ship’s network, sir, and we believe she’s been using one of our soldier’s helmets to-”

“And which absolute _fucking_ idiot was fool enough to remove his helm in her presence? I would have his head removed, as well,” Kylo barks shortly.

“He’s already been arrested, sir, and you may rest assured he will be dealt with _most_ severely,” the Commander promises, seemingly content to have a scapegoat upon which to pin this disaster.

A scratchy transmission comes through and Kylo recognizes her voice.

_“Send your guards away and allow me to pass unharmed into the escape pod in the leeward corridor and I will not shut down life support on the bridge, Commander.”_

The lighting overhead flickers to punctuate her threat, and Kylo clamps his teeth together.

“She must be nearby if she can access life support on the bridge,” he reasons.

“Yes, milord.” The Commander nods with puppet-like agreement. 

“It’s only a matter of time before she figures out all kinds of things, Commander, things like doors and airlocks.”

And the sub-space communication system. But she would need access codes and a command panel to send for help.

No. If she’s accessing life support, she’s nearby.

“Her hands are tied, Commander. She’s caught in her own web. If she moves away from her position, she will have to come out into the open," Kylo says. "She cannot shut down life-support unless she intends to die along with all of us.”

"We concluded the same thing Supreme Leader, but thought it best to inform you, nevertheless."

“Can she hear us?”

“We can project directly throughout the ship using the intercom system, Supreme Leader. It will carry through the ductwork as well.”

“Good. I would send a message.”

“Yes, milord. You need only to speak, and she will hear it.”

The young man at the communications helm pushes a button, and Kylo raises his voice so his message carries clearly.

“Lieutenant, I want every escape pod on this ship jettisoned.”

“I beg your pardon, milord,” the Commander interrupts, low-voiced, “but if we do that and we are attacked before we reach Coruscant-”

“Then you’d best hope we are not attacked!” Ren snaps so forcefully the Commander shrinks away. “Lieutenant, did I not make myself clear? Eject those pods. Now!”

“Yes, Supreme Leader,” the young lieutenant replies, hastily typing in a few commands and keeping his eyes fixed upon the screen in front of him. “They’ve been ejected, sir.”

Kylo isn’t sure if he imagines a vague thumping, but his eyes move upward, examining the ceiling overhead. The lights flicker again and Kylo knows she is displeased.

_Good._

“Rey?” he sings mockingly. “You have no way to escape, my darling. I’ve just ejected all the escape pods. There is no leaving for any of us, now.”

_“I’ll turn off the life support. Don’t you tempt me!”_

“I don’t think you will, or you would have done so already,” he taunts, listening intently for another sound.

The Commander’s eyes meet his as they hear a light scratching from behind the ceiling panels.

_That little menace better not be calling my bluff and shutting off our oxygen._

“I will give you one half-minute to surrender yourself,” he calls upward, “before I have my men locate your friend Rose and make a gift of her to _all_ the soldiers on board this ship. I suppose you could turn off their life support before they finish with her, but I fear they will all die together, regardless.”

Another thump. 

_“No!”_ Rey’s shout crackles through the console next to the Commander and another officer hurries to adjust the volume.

“Sweet Rose. She _is_ a pretty little handful…I’m sure my men will be _most_ grateful for my generosity.”

_“You wouldn’t dare! You animal! Monster!”_

Kylo smiles, not bothering to lower his voice.

“Lieutenant. Where is the soldier Finn quartered? He’s been on rotation to guard my chambers. The maid will certainly be with him.”

_“You bastard!”_

Kylo’s smile grows wide. _Gods, she’s spirited._

“The soldier is quartered on the third deck, lower level, second-to-last cell, milord.”

“Do you hear me, _Omega_?” He hears an angry little squeal at his public use of her designation, not from the console at his side, but from directly overhead.

_Ha. There you are. I knew it._

Kylo lowers his voice threateningly. “I will have her dragged from her bunk and used as thoroughly and cruelly as my men can manage, if you do not show yourself this _instant!_ ”

As one, the officers stare above their heads. A scraping, shuffling sound indicates movement.

The Lieutenant prepares to send Kylo’s command to the lower decks.

“Hold, Lieutenant,” he murmurs, still looking up as a ceiling panel overhead scrapes against metal with an ear-splitting screech when it is kicked out of place.

Every eye on the bridge is drawn to the square hole where the panel was just moments before. A collective gasp ensues from all but Ren when his soon-to-be-bride drops to the floor in a rather disheveled, furious heap at his feet.

He greets her with a surge of triumph. “Hello, my love.”

She glowers up at him from where she crouches, breathing heavily, and his victory dies on the spot. He nearly moans aloud.

Several nearby officers are not so restrained, and he cannot even blame them for it. Here in the unaltered air and without his helmet, he can finally catch her full scent.

_Gods, that’s intoxicating._

Her eyes glow into his, full of futile rage quickly overridden with curiosity as she scents him, as well.

_God’s bloody knot, when is the last time I had a dose of blockers?_

He reins himself in, fighting an audible groan, even as he watches her pupils dilate and her lips part in shock. His hands twitch to strip her naked and he salivates, ready to bite her here and now, but for the others watching their every move.

_All in good time. My gods, she’s…perfect…and mine._

Without thinking, Kylo leans down and drags her into his arms, carrying her back to his quarters with no other thought in his head but one.

_Mine, yes…fuck, I want her._

“You shall never escape me, Omega. You would do well to remember it,” he warns when they enter his room.

He carries her to the bed and tosses her on it. She doesn’t move, just stares back at him agape. He has never in his life wanted to sink his teeth into something as he does at this moment.

He manages not to only through sheer, brute willpower.

“My spies reported you aren’t due for a heat for months,” he hisses accusingly. “How is it you were able to overpower one of my soldiers?”

He has a good guess, but he wants to hear her say it.

She blinks and flushes at his frank language, but mutters an answer, “I only had to block the air vents and he…”

She draws up short.

 _She is as affected by my scent as I am hers, or nearly as much._

“What did you do, _exactly_?” he coaxes from the foot of the bed. She shakes her head, refusing to speak, and he wonders if she is trying to protect the guard’s life from the consequences of his foolishness.

“Did he touch you?” Kylo decides if the soldier touched her, he will personally bleed him on the palace steps at Coruscant.

But Rey shakes her head again.

Kylo nods, relieved to note the atmosphere in the room is once again returning to its former state since someone had the foresight to kick the blankets away from the vents. He is able to think more clearly for now, but growing fog-headed from the weariness of stress and lack of sleep.

She looks tired, too. Deep shadows circle her eyes and he realizes they are both rather weak and thus far too susceptible to each other’s charms, at the moment.

Kylo stomps back to the door and Rey thinks he means to leave her alone again. Her message has been sent to the Resistance, and her false escape attempt provided excellent cover for the task.

She has no problem if he wants to leave so she can finally find some long-overdue rest.

She is groggy from being so tired.

Listening while he admonishes the soldier guarding the door not to disturb him but under the direst of emergencies, she smirks a little when Kylo further warns the soldier to keep his helmet on at all costs.

But her smugness fades when he turns back to face her and grunts, “We tried this the nice way. Now we do it _my_ way.”

“What? You…you wouldn’t _dare_ try anything…not until!” She’s having trouble forming words under the banked fire lighting his eyes. He prowls to stand once again at the foot of the bed.

“Do not presume to inform me what I would or would not dare, Omega, or you may find yourself unpleasantly surprised.”

He strips off his boots and her heart kicks into a panicked gallop.

“I have made my wishes explicitly clear and yet you refuse to bow to reality. The High Priest himself is already en route to Coruscant to meet us, where we will betroth ourselves and marry in all due haste.”

“The High Priest?” _Damn and damn_. She’s been hoping to have _some_ time during the wait for Snoke’s arrival before things proceed apace. "He is on his way to Coruscant?"

“I sent for him the moment I ascertained your identity.” Kylo shakes out his hair, running a frustrated hand through it and glaring at her. “He will conduct the customary rites to ensure we are properly and legally bound.”

“Ha! Your Sith customs mean nothing to me,” she argues weakly, finding it difficult to project more than slight distaste, even knowing any Sithian rites involving a wedding will involve some degree of voluntary bleeding.

Rey’s tutors did their best to prepare her, but she finds herself unable to accrue more than token dissent under the weight of her fatigue. Besides, if she is to carry through with her plan, she will do what she must, even partake in a bleeding rite, if this is what it will require to get Kylo Ren to trust her.

_You must make him believe you are resisting, even as you yield in measured increments. An Alpha like him will not be easily swayed._

“Nevertheless, we will uphold tradition and seal our bond as is expected of those of our status. I have already sent word, even unto the Far Reaches. We will reach Coruscant in time to betroth ourselves, then consummate our union at the next Knot of the Moon. Tomorrow, I believe. The timing is rather impeccable, do you not agree?” His eyes take on a rapacious glow and her stomach sinks to the floor.

Coruscant is a high-cycle lunar system, unlike Jakku.

All systems with moon cycles wreak havoc on an Omega’s hormones to some degree, which is why the Lottery is such a torment. On planets with a moon or more than one, the lunar cycle will vary between thirty and one hundred and twenty days; Omegas, especially unmated ones, are influenced by these cycles.

Living in a planetary system with a low or null lunar cycle allows an Omega to endure less frequent heats, sometimes only once or twice a year. Therefore, sex trafficking for unmated Omegas in high-cycle systems flourishes while the piracy of them from low or null-cycle systems is common practice.

But, while the heats on low-cycle systems are of longer duration, they occur less frequently, and Rey finds this preferable to the idea of her body syncing to a lunar cycle that will put her into heat so often.

If what her tutors informed her to expect is true, then if she arrives on Coruscant before the Knotted Moon, she will undoubtedly go into heat when the moon next waxes full.

And if the next knotted moon is tomorrow _…_

_Damn and damn, I have no time._

He’s removed his boots and untucked his shirt, approaching the side of the bed closest to her, and it becomes apparent he intends to lie down.

Before she can roll away to the other side, vise-like hands grip her.

“Oh, no, no. You’re not going anywhere.”

She tries to kick, but her legs tangle in her dratted bedgown and he very efficiently rolls her half beneath him, trapping her legs beneath his and grappling her into his hold all too easily. She calms too quickly under his weight, instantly captivated by the flecks of gold in his eyes and the angel's kiss placed so provocatively above his mouth.

She is just now beginning to appreciate how her lessons in concentration and willpower were intended to simply keep her thoughts strictly focused, so she might strategize and operate as an agent of destruction within the First Order in spite of her senses being overwhelmed.

And yet, his harsh, angry breaths meet her own, and he smells _so_ devastatingly good, she whimpers aloud.

He pushes his face into her hair and something primitive in her _wants_ to be good for him. He inhales her scent for a minute before pulling away. She does not fight as he stares her down, silently compelling her to remain still.

But she cannot hold his gaze for long and glances away. Undaunted, he cups a palm over her cheek, forcing her attention back on him.

“I would mark you with my scent,” he whispers roughly, “so none other would be tricked into falling for your wiles and assisting you with another half-cocked escape attempt.”

The lightest brush of the inside of his wrist against the side of her neck sends a hot, melting sensation flooding her middle, making her tense and relax at the same time. “This will suffice for now. Until we can make our situation more _permanent._ ”

He does it again more firmly and she cries out.

“Shhhhh,” he soothes. “I’m not hurting you. _Shhhhh_ …”

His large hand laces through her hair, gripping gently at the back of her skull, lifting her from the pillow and leaning close until the side of his neck brushes hers. She trembles and groans when the most _exquisite_ pleasure floods her, and she bites back a cry of ecstasy when he shudders against her in response.

Abruptly, he rears back, returning her awed stare, holding her like this forever before he takes her hands and threads his fingers through hers, pressing her into his pillows and bending to kiss her lightly parted lips. She resists him – _of course she does_ – but he overpowers her senses so effortlessly, so thoroughly, her resistance is a weak, pathetic thing.

"Open for me," he breathes before moving close again.

His tongue pushes insistently into her mouth and she is so stunned by it, by the intimacy of sharing his taste, she cannot move but for a slight flexing of her fingers against his.

_Just…a little more…_

Her eyes flutter closed and he does it again, his tongue stroking gently, even as the heat of his body sinks deeper into hers.

She knows he is bracing his weight so he does not crush her, but illogically she wants him _closer, more, yes, oh, yes!_

When he angles his mouth over hers demanding more, she arches to meet him, and this time he is the one who groans and squeezes her hands in his.

“You kiss like a virgin at temple,” he claims ruefully against her mouth.

“I _am_ a virgin, and practically raised in a temple, my lord,” she points out, her face heating with mortification and sudden shyness. “Have you kissed so many like me?”

“I think I would be a fool to answer that question,” he teases with a bit of conceit and declares, “Do not be embarrassed by your innocence. You just need a teacher.”

He kisses her again and she opens her mouth eagerly, despite herself. He takes several long minutes to instruct her on the proper way to return his kisses, although his lesson is not delivered with words, but with soft, masculine rumbles of pleasure from the back of his throat and his hot breath to swap with hers until the edges of her mind grow fuzzy.

_Alpha is pleased. Give him what he wants…he will be good to you…so good._

She feels rather as if she’s floating on a cloud, surrounded by warm, heavy muscle and his deliciously sinful taste.

“In truth,” he assures her when he next comes up for air, “I am glad you will only ever know my touch. It means you are meant to be mine and mine alone. The gods have willed it…I will not fight their wishes.”

His plainly spoken statement sends a shiver through her. She cannot stop staring at his lips, plump and wet from their kissing.

He bends to her neck, tonguing her scent gland until she’s trembling and a dreadful, _familiar_ ache throbs between her legs, making her heart skip with anxiety. She might send herself into heat at this rate, and this would be disastrous.

He seems to sense it, too, and without warning he rolls her to the side, facing away from him. He tucks her legs more securely under his before spooning his large body around hers and burying his nose in her hair, dangerously close to her overly sensitive mating gland.

She shivers with alarm and cries out a panicked, _“Oh!”_ when he noses too close.

He sighs wearily. “Rey. I’m exhausted and on the bare edge of losing my temper. I swear to the gods, I only wish to sleep. And I will rest more easily knowing you aren’t plotting behind my back if you are sleeping, too. For the love of the gods, lie still. _Please_.”

This last makes her freeze. He has yet to beg anything of her. He must be truly tired.

Warm breath brushes against her ear and she feels him stroke her hair to expose the back of her neck.

 _“Mmmh,_ you smell incredible,” he mutters. His soft puffs of breath send tickling chills to the very bottoms of her feet. She lies still, listening warily until his breathing evens and his grip loosens. He’s fallen asleep, curled around her.

She does not pull away, telling herself it is because he is so very warm and his blankets are still scattered around the floor.

She tells herself she inhales so deeply and rubs her nose so cautiously against the lightly furred forearm resting next to her face because she ought to acclimatize and desensitize herself to his scent.

But when she drowses in his embrace, her vaguely wild dreams tell her she feels more anticipation than dread at the knowledge his scent will be _eternally_ mingled with hers very, very soon.

He sleeps restlessly, drifting between actual slumber and half-formed, waking fantasies and plans for their impending arrival at Coruscant.

In his mind’s eye, he can still envision her beautifully shaped, rose-tipped breasts, scandalously close to brushing against his chest, earlier. And though he wore a thickly woven tunic at the time, he could have sworn he felt the heat of her radiating straight into him.

Kylo replays the emotions that rolled across his prisoner’s face when he told her he did _not_ intend to execute her in a show of power or marry her off to some low ranking soldier out of spite, as his mother likely predicted.

Privately, he is willing to admit any plans he might have had to put her to death dissolved the instant he laid eyes on her. Publicly Bleeding some faceless, nameless Omega for the sake of revenge might once have tempted him, but the idea of bringing this particular one to heel holds a certain primitive appeal.

_Besides, I need to secure my throne and claim her and get sons and daughters on her as quickly as I can._

Before she tries to run again.

Although the existence of her homing beacon certainly threw a wrench in his plans to take her quietly and simply, he was victorious in the end. True, the damned beacon cost him valuable ships and troops, and the battle to escape bis mother's Resistance squadrons was not easy.

But he has her now.

She sighs, having shifted in sleep to lie nearly on top of him, her face buried in his chest, her slim legs tangled with his.

A moment of worry crosses his mind when he realizes how vulnerable they are. His local forces are depleted, he has no escape pods, and reinforcements are light-years away, since half his armies are currently deployed to escort the High Priest to Coruscant. 

But Kylo quickly calms his fears, knowing he has Leia Organa. She will be instrumental in bringing the remainder of the galaxy under his rule, if not by threat of a painful death, then certainly by his uncle’s compliance and surrender.

His uncle Luke is Leia’s own twin. Luke would _never_ sacrifice Leia to a Bleeding, not after Kylo already demonstrated such a brutal willingness to execute his own father in that very same procedure so long ago.

Kylo’s arms tighten around his soft, sweet-smelling prize, and he drifts back to sleep, eager to make planetfall soon, knowing when he next awakens, he will finally claim the balance of his fortune.


	5. Harbingers

# Chapter Five – Harbingers

_Alpha. Strong. Smells good, smells right. Mine._

Rey wakes groggily, missing the warmth that had accompanied her dreams for most of her sleep.

_I’m…covered in his scent. Gods, what happened?_

She blinks awake and sits abruptly in a panic.

A quick glance and a discreet mental run-through of her physical condition reveals she did nothing more than sleep in his bed, although he slept, too, his large body curved around hers for a good many hours.

She recalls the way his soft, regular breathing lulled her into slumber, how she cautiously tried to immerse herself in his scent so she could try to find a way to deaden her reaction to him. Every time he shifted in sleep, she found her heart too quick to leap with eager anticipation, too willing to be soothed by his touch.

_He is your enemy, Rey. You would do well to keep this at the forefront of your mind._

He stands at the window, watching the stars flash by.

Naturally, he notices the moment she wakes.

“We shall break our fast here. We land at my palace on Coruscant within the hour, and then will proceed to prepare to make our betrothal vows this evening," he tells her, still looking out the window as casually as if he did not spend most of the previous hours with his face pressed disconcertingly close to the back of her neck.

But he did not bite her, nor did he make any move to touch her mating gland again.

He must be unduly resilient, if he was able to resist her overnight.

_Our spies have confirmed he practices daily meditation and has done for a long while. He will be difficult to manipulate with your scent alone, potent though it will be to him._

_He allows his emotions free rein but is not ruled by them, nor by base passion._

_By the time you are placed into position, we can expect his training and practices to only make him stronger in this regard. This will not be a simple task of binding him to you with animal attraction, as you have been trained to do with other Alphas._

Leia's spies were correct, and Rey takes comfort, clinging to the slight advantage of foreknowledge.

Except.

This is not going at all to plan.

It does not matter if he resisted claiming her over the past hours, not if he intends to do it in days. It will still not give her near enough time in which to maneuver.

They had hoped for at least a year before she even wed him, then at least another year before she inevitably fell pregnant, then nearly another before she might give him an heir – at the earliest, almost three years. Time enough to allow Leia and the Resistance a chance to regroup and to give Luke the opportunity to fire the unbearably slow-moving gears of war in the Free Senate. Time enough to prevent the Supreme Leader from legitimizing an Imperial Monarchy, where he can dissolve the Senate and declare himself uncontested ruler of the galaxy, enacting or reinstating any laws he wishes.

He’s already quite baldly declared his intentions to do exactly this. But on an advanced timeline, if he gets his way, he could have an heir within ten months. Not even a full year from today might see him installed as Imperial Emperor.

Even worse, the moment he claims her, it will change her scent, and she's been planning on using her fabled golden blood to establish a series of allies in the household _before_ bonding with him and risk diluting the potency.

_I wonder if the Resistance managed to get to Leia._

He turns his sharp, assessing gaze upon her, and she sputters, “My lord, we cannot possibly perform any kind of holy rituals until I’ve attended temple and fasted and prayed. I’ve-”

His eyes glitter speculatively and he murmurs, “Ah. You wish to properly break your Jedi heat-fasting? How very _pious_ you are. I’m impressed.”

Belatedly, she notices a tray of food laid out on the table and her stomach emits a decidedly unholy grumble.

If she follows her religious practices to the letter, she knows she is prohibited from eating until after their wedding ceremony. This fact makes her unaccountably irritated, especially at the ironic quirk of his brow when he hears the discernible ruckus coming from her midsection.

“Regardless of my figurehead status to _you_ , my lord, Jedi or Sith, I will be regarded as a representative of righteousness to…to _our_ people,” she reminds him, placing a careful emphasis on the _our._ Perhaps he will take this as a slight indication of compliance, although she does not mean it so. “I would not have my subjects think me unchaste.”

“Unchaste? Such a concept carries no significance at court. You will find my courtiers more…morally ambiguous than those overly righteous monks who seemed so content to torture you thrice a year and provide you such a meager _practical_ education on that grotty little sand-trap where I found you,” he declares sardonically.

Her cheeks bloom with color as she wonders if he’s referring to her painfully unschooled kisses from the previous eve.

_Perhaps that’s why he wasn’t tempted to claim me so hastily…perhaps he finds me repellant._

“Oh, the stories of licentiousness at your court have even made their way to my grotty little sand trap, my lord,” she fires back. “Though truth be told, some of the tales that reached me were so obscene I had hoped they were much exaggerated.”

“Hmmmm. Perhaps. Perhaps not. We shall see if your definition of _licentiousness_ amends itself after our mating, shall we not?”

“You needn’t be so vulgar as to remind me! I know full well I shall be living amongst barbarians and you chief of them all!” Rey cries hotly.

“You think _me_ barbaric? After enduring a heat-fasting? Or several?” His eyes glow with greed, despite the cynicism in his tone. “I shudder to think of how you define _that_ tortuous practice, surely nothing more than overly puritanical nonsense and self-righteous pomp exchanged for common sense.”

She glares at him, part of her in silent agreement, which only invokes more ire.

He muses, “I’ve never met anyone strong enough to make it through a heat-fast with their sanity intact.”

“That is because you have never met an _Omega_ like me, my lord.”

He grins wickedly. “Are we on _such_ familiar terms now, my darling? Surely not just yet? Or have you finally conceded yourself to fate?”

She decides to ignore him as he unceremoniously seats himself, apparently taking her at her word that she wishes to fast.

He fills a plate and begins to eat, and she immediately regrets her hasty claim to observe proper Jedi ritual. Nobody would criticize if she opts out of fasting: Most people outside of the Jedi Order wouldn’t even realize she’s ignored a step in the process and those, if any are around, will likely assume she’s already undergone a series of fasts in anticipation of her wedding to Luke Skywalker.

She only mentioned the practice to Kylo Ren in a last-ditch effort to delay her nuptials. Not because of any deep-rooted religious devotion.

_It would only have bought me hours at most._

Fasting certainly will not give her enough time to delay the inevitable if the High Priest is en route to meet them. Even Rey, a staunch Jedi, cannot keep the High Priest waiting.

Her stomach rumbles loudly again and she hears Ren’s soft chuckle as she flings herself back into the covers only to be instantly assailed by the intoxicating scent of his pillow.

“You might reconsider protocol and fortify yourself as best you can, Rey. We are both to have a very long day.”

His use of her name is somehow worse than his casually flung endearments. She hesitates. She _is_ rather hungry.

“Come and eat,” he coaxes. “I would not have you fainting during our Blood Oath.”

“A Blood Oath?” She realizes he refers to a primitive Sithian betrothal rite, conducted on the eve before one's wedding.

_Which means we marry tomorrow. Oh, no, that is far too soon._

Panic writhes through her and she hedges, “You would have me practice dark Sith rituals on the most sacred days of my life?”

“Surely not. Merely a ceremony for show more than anything. More symbolic than spiritual. You of all people should comprehend the importance of public demonstrations that have little personal meaning.”

She hisses from the pillows, unaccountably annoyed over how he pinpoints her exact views so succinctly, “I don’t know of what you speak, my lord!”

“Do you not?” he barks. His voice deepens into austere reprimand. “I was, of course, referring to the vows you made to my uncle. Never fear. His head will be rotting on a pike on the palace steps as soon as I can manage it.”

She peeks over at him. He spears a bite of salted venison with far too much enthusiasm.

“I…I _meant_ my vows…” she stammers, lying through her teeth.

“My dear, if you’re implying a preference to use _Jedi_ vows to seal our union, then by all means, let us do so. I will happily bow to your wishes if it means you intend to promise to uphold and defend my will in all things, freely give of yourself in all ways I might desire, and cherish my person in harmonious submission until the day of your death. Because if _this_ is your intent, I will most humbly beg your pardon and agree to forgo the Blood Oath altogether.”

“I would rather _die_ than speak those words to a dog like you! You know what I mean. What I _meant!_ ”

She clambers from his bed in a huff, unable to bear the mocking twinkle in his eyes alongside the enticing scent of his bedding for another moment.

_Of course he only quotes the Jedi bridal oaths nearly word-for-word so he can use them against me, the villain._

Perhaps the Sith rite will be better suited to them both. Anything short of outright torture is surely preferable to saying _those_ words before an audience, no matter how insincere she might be.

Grumpily, she seats herself at the table and when he places his plate before her this time, it seems to be a gesture of peace rather than a continuation of his mocking.

She tries not to notice how a lock of his silky black hair has fallen over his brow or how the derisive gleam in his eyes lights them with amber and flecks of gold. Or the way his plush lips purse just as they did when he kissed her so gently before falling asleep, holding her with a sort of longing possessiveness.

This last thought makes her uncomfortable and she pushes it firmly away.

He spreads a lovely-smelling fruity jam on a roll and places half of it on her plate before taking a bite of his half.

“I fear you have been too deeply indoctrinated; the Jedi and the Sith share all but a few common traits," he tells her conversationally. "They are but two halves of a whole religion, some of which is outdated and some of which is subject to varying interpretation. But _my_ house, and the dynasty upon which I intend to found it, will include both sides in fair measure. Surely a bit of bloodletting will not irreparably damage your soul?”

Absently, she takes a bite of pomegranate, once again in unwilling agreement with his pragmatic philosophies for the second time in minutes. He watches her rather predatorily as she chews and contemplates.

He waits until she swallows before he murmurs, “ _Lost in Hell, Persephone…_ ”

She gasps and drops her fork. He smirks mischievously back at her, far too cocky.

_Your continued reactions only egg him on, dammit. Take control of this conversation before it wanders down a path from which you cannot return._

“Edna St. Vincent…Millay?” she asks, pulling her face into a calm expression and tasting something else.

He nods appreciatively and smiles. “I see your dogmatic upbringing and woeful lack of training in the bedroom arts did not impede something of a classical education. That is heartening, at least.”

Deliberately ignoring his goading, she considers instead the poem to which he referred. His quote is from a work written many, many centuries before The Great Devastation, penned before humans possessed the technological capacity to explore and colonize the galaxy and subsequently almost eradicate all intelligent life.

The words are a scrap of ancient history so old only fragments remain, preserved over the relentless march of time, going back to the Genesis period, when people lived in a single system, the Solar System, on the planet Terra, sometimes called Earth, until it was made uninhabitable by its residents.

Rey has forgotten until this moment how Kylo Ren was named Hades incarnate on the day of his birth, how the astrologers who read his stars confirmed him as the God of Death reborn.

This reminder disconcerts her. She regrets eating the pomegranate, feeling as though she’s only reinforced his towering ego. His brooding stare unnerves her, the roiling in her stomach never fully settling, even as she sips her tea and eats the simple fare before her, leaving only the pomegranate unfinished.

“Surely you do not think yourself a god, milord?” she replies eventually, keeping her voice light.

He remains too serious and he counters, “It matters not what I think in that regard. Only my subjects.”

Without invitation, he reaches over to pluck a wedge of the fruit from her plate. He takes a bite and she cannot tear her eyes from the sight of his sharp, white teeth sinking into the tender seeds. A line of juice drips from the corner of his mouth while he chews, somehow making the entire act appear as both a promise and a threat.

He doesn't bother to break eye contact as he sucks juice from his fingers and thumb before elegantly patting his chin with a square of linen, returning her stare with unrepentant hunger.

The moment is broken when the solemn-eyed Mitaka enters the room and bows. Rey cannot scent the Beta’s emotions, since aerosolized suppressants have resumed flowing into the room.

Nevertheless, she senses the young man is nervous and perks up.

_If he brings ill news to his master, then perhaps it will mean good news for me._

“Forgive the interruption, Supreme Leader, but I assumed you would wish to know the High Priest made planetfall just moments ago, and we expect to enter atmosphere in a few minutes.”

Rey’s stomach squirms uncomfortably, and Kylo smiles. “And my mother?”

“We have not heard from her transport, my lord.”

“It’s been many hours. Why have we not yet heard news?” Kylo bites out, his mood clouding over.

“Communications were shut down shortly after they landed for repairs, milord, and we have not–”

“I would know the _instant_ you make contact with that transport, Mitaka. And I want those cells in my dungeons readied for Leia Organa’s arrival.”

“Preparations have already been made, milord.”

“And my bride’s chambers?”

“Ready and awaiting a new mistress, lord.”

Mitaka stacks their plates and the remainders of their meal onto a tray and bears it from the room with brisk efficiency.

“Chambers? For me?”

Having more than one room to herself is something of a foreign concept, particularly as she’s been quite content to spend much of her time outdoors on Jakku, prowling through the junkyards and hanging about the public market, much to the dismay and constant bereavement of her tutors. She assumed she would be assigned a room, but more than one seems excessive.

“My lady grandmother’s suites have long gone unused,” he tells her. “They are the most finely appointed in the palace, second to mine. The household staff have been airing her clothes and linens and things for you to use until you choose to commission your own. Since you left Jakku in rather a hurry."

A spark of agitation at his presumption makes her speak too candidly. “You would have me wear your grandmother’s clothes? How odd. I’ve heard Sith sexual inclinations tend toward the bizarre.”

Instead of pricking his temper as she hoped, his eyes merely light with mirth at her blunt language.

“I knew her not, and yet I have heard tell my grandfather held her and her beauty in very high esteem.”

“If you mean to compliment me, my lord, I find the comparison in poor taste. Your grandfather was a despot whose cruelty nearly brought the galaxy to its knees.”

Finally, his temper flares and he spits, “And yet his blood flows through _my_ veins. Take care you do not rouse it and bring upon yourself similar devastation.”

“Ha!” she cries, satisfied to finally provoke him as he’s provoked her. “I would be more like to rouse the blood of your low-born father and watch you play the fool!”

She claps her hand over her mouth the instant the words spew forth, knowing she’s gone too far. Rage simmers out of him, and a thrill of apprehension sweeps through her.

But once again, Ren calms too quickly and murmurs, “Say what you like about my father, but know this: He fell by mine own hand for his treachery and lies. And while I may resemble him in appearance, this is where the likeness ends, particularly as I have no intention of becoming the instrument of my own ruin.”

Brusquely, he stands and leaves her alone, and Rey shudders, feeling as if she’s somehow escaped a much-deserved punishment.

She attempts to brace her thoughts as she stands to look out the window. The ship jostles slightly as it enters Coruscant’s atmosphere.

 _And this is where the fun begins_ , she thinks to herself, taking in a bright blue sky and a planet she’s only ever seen on holocron screens.

Her stomach flips wildly as they descend into the very heart of the bright metropolis.

After a few minutes, Kylo reappears to collect her and she briefly considers refusing to leave, wondering what would happen if she stays on the ship forever. But the wolfish gleam in his eyes tells her he will simply haul her off ship by force, which will be entirely undignified and not at all useful to her reputation or her ulterior purposes.

She becomes uncomfortably aware she still wears only a bedgown and her night slippers and nothing else, while her adversary has donned a luxurious vermilion cape over his freshly pressed, sooty-black tunic and trousers and polished boots.

Suddenly self-conscious, she fusses with the knotted fabric at her shoulder and belatedly tries to pat her hair into place, wondering if Rose were to see her now how loudly the young maid would wail over her dishevelment.

Kylo’s tongue sweeps over his teeth as he evaluates her. “Fear not, my dear. You look quite fair…truly a goddess, still very lovely even after being abducted from your bedchamber.”

Reluctantly, she takes his arm and allows him to lead her to the exit.

_I can do this. I can do this._

The ship is parked on a landing platform high above the city, and as the ramp lowers Rey is greeted by warm humidity, inundated with far too many strange scents and flavors hanging in the air for her to immediately recognize anything specific.

A wash of dread overcomes her as sensory overload kicks in. 

The atmosphere is very different than the regulated air onboard Kylo’s ship, and it soon becomes apparent the dry heat of Jakku is much preferable to the thick dampness of Coruscant.

Rey, having never traveled anywhere before, finds the blur of colors and motion overwhelming. Lines of troops stand at attention to create an aisle between the ramp of the cruiser and a huge, domed, golden building.

Beyond the rows and rows of soldiers, she can see the tops of hundreds of other buildings extending far to either side of the horizon. Bright red flags and banners hang everywhere, waving limply in the heavy air that brings her to an instant sweat.

The Black Sun of the House of Ren is stamped on every banner hanging from the palace, and the sigil reminds her of nothing so much as a pitiless black eye.

_It’s death. The Eye of Death…and he is the god of it, if only in name, which is bad enough._

They make their way down the ramp, and a vague roar thunders loudly enough to quake the ground beneath her feet, adding to the disorienting stimuli. It is thousands upon thousands of people cheering.

Kylo guides her past the soldiers, proceeding down a scarlet carpet extending into the largest building she has ever seen.

A wave of dizziness hits her and she looks up at him in helpless appeal.

“Welcome to Coruscant.”

He may as well have welcomed her to Hell itself. The humidity makes her skin instantly sticky and damp and the unbelievable stench is enough to knock her to her knees.

Leia had warned her about the smell, of course.

_It’s overwhelming. You will not understand at first how so many scents can exist at once. I find it best to focus on a single one until you get indoors._

_If he brings you to the palace proper or his private wing, which is most likely, the air indoors will be much preferable. It is not chemically altered, but a series of cleverly constructed wind tunnels circulate through the buildings to maintain airflow. It helps disburse everyone’s scent, so it is more manageable. This is not to say any Alpha in your immediate proximity won’t be affected by you._

_You will turn heads, not the least because I’m sure he will want to present you with much fanfare and the people will probably have some forewarning of your arrival._

Recalling Leia’s advice, Rey finds a scent and clings to it with all determination.

_Good. Safe. Familiar._

Only when she is nearly to the massive doors under a huge arched entry does she realize she’s chosen to focus on, well… _him_.

Another wave of celebratory noise hits her and she wants to buckle under the sheer weight of what she’s about to do. A firm grip at her elbow provides an encouraging squeeze and she has no choice but to pass through the doors, held open by a pair of footmen liveried in black trimmed with scarlet.

They enter the cool dimness of his palace, which provides instant relief from the cloying humidity outside. Many scents still linger, but they are muted. She assumes any Alphas or Omegas in the vicinity must be wearing or dosed with some form of suppressant or blocker. It occurs to her neither she nor Kylo has done anything to mitigate their own scents. 

“My lord, ought we to…?” she hesitates, unsure of how to mention her concern without drawing attention to how his scent suddenly seems to engulf her senses.

He chuckles, catching her meaning. “That is not our way, my darling.”

“But…what if…?” _What if someone is overcome by one of us and misbehaves?_

“Those who live in my household are well aware of proper conduct in my presence and now yours. Any unseemly behavior will be dealt with most harshly,” he soothes.

They have paused in the middle of a long hallway, lined with gorgeous multi-colored glass windows on either side, which run all the way up to arched ceilings that are buttressed in the ancient style of Terran Gothic cathedrals.

Soldiers stand at attention, disbursed in meticulously even increments down the length of the hall. They hold long spears and wear scarlet cloaks and their armor is cardinal red. Rey immediately identifies them as the legendary Omicrons. It is said only those who wear red armor can overcome Death itself.

They do not wear closed-face helmets to block incoming scents, nor do they need to. Rey draws in a few discreet sniffs but cannot detect any scent but Kylo’s.

She knows Omicrons’ scent glands are surgically removed when they enter service, to give them an edge in battle and so they might conduct the business of the royal family with all stealth and secrecy. Nevertheless, Rey finds it disconcerting she cannot smell any of them, other than the very faintest mingling of normal body odor from dozens of soldiers standing at attention for hours on end.

She knows each of them can fully scent her, but, as Kylo promised, none appear to be overly curious or even indicate an awareness of her presence. She tries not to stare at the tiny scars on their necks, knowing it will be embarrassingly provincial for her to show any lack of sophistication.

These guards are elite warriors, answering only to the royal family; once she marries Kylo Ren, she will be a member of the royal family, too, although Leia warned her to do nothing to test the Omicron's loyalties, as they will side with Kylo Ren every time.

All who serve him live or die at his discretion. Named God of the Dead on the day of his birth, common prophecy declares him to have the blood of a princess and a scoundrel in his veins. It has been predicted he will shake the very stars from the skies.

_The noise from the city certainly seems loud enough to shake the stars…I can hear the crowds. So many people…they are my mission now. I will ensure their very best possible futures and see them free from tyranny._

She glances up at the tyrant in question and takes a deep breath as they proceed down the gallery.

“ _My dear, my dear, It is not so dreadful here,_ ” Kylo intones gently when another set of doors swings open at their approach.

And as she gazes upon the opulence before her, she cannot help but mutter, “ _She that was so proud and wild_ , indeed…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: The poem referenced in this chapter comes from Edna St. Vincent Millay’s “Prayer to Persephone” and if you are a fan of truly lovely poetry, I encourage you to look for her works.


	6. Salutation

# Chapter Six – Salutation

While impressive, the small gallery from where they came is nothing in comparison to the Great Hall, which is spacious enough to house several large, freighter-class ships.

Rey tries to orient herself and summon her memory of the schematics provided by Resistance spies over the years. She knows the Hall lies under the largest dome of the palace, gold on the outside and painted inside with fabulous imagery of a history of the gods far over her head.

She cranes her neck, unable to resist gawking just a bit. The ceiling glows with rich color and movement, but Kylo hustles her along too quickly for her to catch more than hazy impressions.

Constructed of black marble veined in red, the Great Hall would seem dark but for the floor, which stretches endless and gleaming before them.

A gasp of amazement escapes her as they cross it; the floor is even more wondrous than Rey believed possible, said to be an exact, real-time replica of every star system and planet in the galaxy. Rumor says one can occasionally glimpse a supernova or formation of a new star if one watches avidly enough to catch the occurrence.

Made from a dark material of unknown origin, the floor at first appears endlessly black, but as she steps across it, the galaxy, the _entire_ galaxy shines beneath her feet in exquisite detail. Her every step produces a ripple of light, like water, that moves all the way to the edges in shimmering, radiant waves.

“I’ve heard of this!” she exclaims, momentarily too caught up in the glorious magic before her to remember playing the part of the reluctant prisoner. “The floor is said to feed off the lifeforce of every living being in the galaxy and that is why it glows like a…a living map!”

Kylo slows his pace a fraction, commenting, “You’re right. 'Tis ancient magic from a long-gone species, gifted to our ancestors millennia ago. I've heard tell it changes occasionally and used to glow much more brightly before The Great Devastation brought ruin to nearly all known intelligent life.”

Long ago, only the species _homo sapiens_ was able to regain its losses to the population, and only then after preventative and forceful measures such as the Lottery system were employed to ensure breeding rates continued to rise. Most other advanced species were unable to recover from the Devastation because of incompatible physiology, although humans assimilated much of the technology left behind.

After a period of darkness, an unprecedented resurgence of art and culture emerged, a Renaissance unlike anything in recorded history, still shaping much of modern culture, even to the outer edges of the realms. There came an especial fondness for Terran art and religion, even in manners of speech and dress.

Kylo’s long stride resumes, forcing her to hurry alongside him toward a set of pointed archways, which line the Hall opposite from where they entered. Rey observes the influence of ancient Earth in the mix of domed and cathedral-style architecture with interest, noting the horseshoe arches and intricately carved marble, a curious mingling of old Earth cultures, but not unaesthetic.

To her left, the main doors lead to the infamous palace steps outside, framed in more floor-to-ceiling stained glass. To her right sits a throne in unrelieved black marble atop an enormous marble dais.

On a whim, she nods to her left and tentatively squeezes the muscled arm under her fingers.

“Might I look upon the people? I can hear them cheering.”

Leia warned her how continued exposure to the combined scent and humidity is enough to nauseate even the doughtiest courtiers, but Rey also knows a public gesture of goodwill in the guise of innocent curiosity will help secure the approval of the citizens outside.

_I need every advantage I can scavenge, at this point._

His eyes glint with calculation before he graciously concedes. “The people will cheer long into the night and for many days to come. But if you wish to look upon them, I suppose there’s no harm in it. I daresay many have been waiting at Market Level in the scant hopes of catching a glimpse of us.”

He adjusts their trajectory, and she braces herself against a now-anticipated burst of foul air as the colossal doors sweep open. Kylo escorts her to the top of a massive stairway leading endlessly down into a swarming mass of people and color and cacophonous noise.

From her studies, Rey knows the stairs lead down from the Great Hall many stories to Market Level, which is the mid-level of the city. Below Market Level lies the Scrum, or Street Level.

Kylo guides her to the top step and a rush of icy foreboding brings goosebumps to her skin as she observes the infamous stairs for the first time. The noise of the crowd fades as she looks more closely.

Just as the floor in the Great Hall is legendary, the palace steps at Coruscant are also quite famous.

As she recalls from her tutors' references, she finds the strange gutters carved into the stairs. During an execution, victims are secured to a stone altar fitted into slots in the steps, where they are restrained so their executioner might meticulously and repeatedly cut them until their blood pools and runs into those gutters.

It is said the farther one’s blood drips down the steps, the more painful is his death, as the cuts must be made so as to maintain blood flow while keeping the victim alive for as long as possible.

And then, just before the final, horrible blow is delivered…

_Ugh. Don’t think about that._

Rey’s stomach squirms and she deliberately shifts her attention back to the people. She’s so high above them all she cannot make out faces, only a raucous blur when they recognize her standing with the Supreme Leader.

A wild cheer, louder than anything yet, assaults her ears.

_Ah. They know me. Or think they do._

The palace seems to shake from the noise, and when Kylo turns to lead her back inside after only a few minutes, she follows meekly, unable to find a reason not to escape the din or smell.

“However did they know to gather and cheer us?”

“I sent word ahead in preparation for our arrival, of course,” he replies with too much smugness for her liking.

They proceed back through the Great Hall and Rey watches the floor closely again, fascinated by the swirling, luminescent beauty underfoot and slightly unnerved by the sensation she’s going to somehow step _through_ the solid surface.

But they cross the Hall all too quickly, and Kylo guides her down a series of passages she already committed to memory back on Jakku, though he doesn’t know it.

He’s taking her to the royal family’s private quarters by circuitous route, though he might have led her directly from the small gallery outside the palace’s private landing area. Rey suspects he is trying to impress her.

…and she must admit what she’s witnessed so far surpasses what she’s been led to expect. This both comforts and worries her. Leia and her spies have been correct in the basic facts, the layout, the features of the palace, even some of the rituals and routines. But they have not fully prepared her for the sensory overload, the feeling that everything around her is too new, too bright…too intense.

Her host seems unnaturally attuned to her moods and thoughts, as well, an experience Rey knows will only become more acute after they are mated.

“Try not to feel too overcome by it all,” he says softly. “You’re my guest. I would have you feel comfortable in your new home.”

She doesn’t bother to contradict him or his seductively low tones.

Kylo escorts her down several long stretches of carpeted halls, all painted and stain-glassed, and she realizes the scents and sounds from outside have become virtually indiscernible as they move deeper into the heart of the palace.

The humidity is all but gone here, and she feels a welcome breeze touch her skin. She is relieved; the wind tunnel system seems to move the air quite effectively.

Kylo notices her shiver and accurately guesses why. “I’m sure you will find your apartments in order and more temperately acclimated. You will remain within and not try to leave. Every soldier in the palace has already been instructed to bring you directly to me should they find you wandering about unescorted.”

“Ah. I perceive I am to be more a caged pet than a guest, milord?” she snaps with annoyance. His warning comes as no shock, but the very first thing she’s been hoping to do is test her boundaries.

“I’m so glad we understand each other.” His smile is a hint too _carnivorous_ to be considered polite, and Rey clenches her jaw firmly shut so as not to encourage further conceit on his part.

“And if I wish to attend temple?” she asks, belatedly recalling her self-promise to light a candle for her fallen Resistance compatriots.

“You may attend any time you wish after we are wed. I will escort you personally, but today you must be prepared for presentation to the High Priest and our betrothal this evening, not to mention our wedding tomorrow. I am sure the woman I appointed to assist you has her work cut out for her, _ahh_ , given the state of your appearance.”

His nostrils flicker with insinuation, and her eyes widen in outrage at his insult.

He cuts her off, “Don’t be upset, I’m simply pointing out the truth. You might observe yourself in a looking-glass before jumping to offense so quickly.”

She is fuming, although she’s sure he is probably right, and she looks a disaster.

Attending temple will not serve her purposes if he intends to accompany her, anyhow.

_Besides. You’re still wearing your bedgown._

And if she is to mentally prepare for the days and weeks and months to come, she’d best take his earlier advice and fortify herself. A tiny, guilty part of her admits a preference to remain in the cool, clean-scented rooms of the palace. It will be nice to rest and wash and brush her hair and perhaps eat something again instead of reemerge into the interminable humidity for what will surely be a futile reconnaissance effort.

Pragmatism and waning momentum combine, and she follows him into the entry of the royal wing.

Had she not seen the Great Hall already, she might have gasped aloud here, too.

Like a miniature version of the Great Hall, the entryway is spacious and open. But where the Great Hall’s colors are mostly black and shades of red, here the colors are predominantly blue and creamy white, shot through with occasional touches of vermilion and carmine. Instead of a whole row of arches, there lies only one arched doorway to either side and rather than a throne, a huge fireplace dominates the opposite wall in gold-veined white marble.

Chairs and chaises and tables are arranged around the room, though Rey is sure the space is rarely used to sit or lounge. Nevertheless, floral arrangements sit atop every gleaming wood surface and a gorgeously woven rug in blue and cream covers the polished redwood floor.

 _Well, this is quite lovely_ , she thinks.

Until.

She glances up at the domed ceiling and yelps in surprise.

Kylo glances up, too, looking momentarily alarmed, then decidedly pleased. She turns bright red, choking on a rush of embarrassment and some other feeling she isn’t sure she can pinpoint as she peeks up at the ceiling again.

Beside her, Kylo nods approvingly. “Certainly a great likeness. Mitaka, I would have you extend my congratulations to the artist.”

Belatedly, Rey notices Ren’s servant standing next to one of the arched doors. Mitaka bows and says, “They finished but moments ago, Supreme Leader. The paint is not yet dry.”

“You _asked_ someone to do that? Deliberately?” Rey sputters.

“Impressive isn’t it? I sent word ahead the minute we confirmed your identity, of course. So the artists would know how to present you. We’ve had your image on file for a while now, along with a few others we'd suspected to be the Golden Blood…your decoys. We only needed to ensure it was _really_ you. Well. You remember all _that_ fuss, I’m sure.”

She looks upward again and bites her tongue. Above her, painted across the ceiling in classical style is an abduction scene meant to represent _Hades and Persephone._ And Hades looks uncannily like Kylo Ren…except he’s not wearing a damned thing, only an artfully positioned thigh of Persephone's to cover certain _parts._

The sight of his naked torso rendered above her so gratuitously makes Rey's heart skip a beat or two.

Because, as appalling as _this_ sight is, she finds even more disturbing the rendition of Hades's plush, red lips, parted in eager readiness, as if he is at this very _moment_ going to sink his teeth into a _quite_ nude Persephone draped limply over his lap and who looks remarkably like Rey.

Right down to the dusting of freckles over her bosom.

“You…sent word ahead?” she asks weakly.

Suddenly the room feels far too warm, and she glances at the fireplace to see if perhaps it was lit by accident, even though the weather is quite balmy outside, but which can be the only explanation for why waves of heat seem to be washing over her.

His eyes darken with interest as he catches her scent, his nose twitching slightly.

_It must be the damned lunar cycle here. He said it would be nearly a Knotted Moon when we arrive. Oh, Rey. Collect your wits before they scatter completely._

But she cannot meet his eyes and turns away, noticing a very, very tall blonde woman standing at the door opposite Mitaka.

The woman murmurs, “Welcome, Supreme Leader,” then turns her piercing blue gaze to Rey. As their eyes meet, the blonde sinks into a gorgeous curtsy and murmurs, “My lady.”

“I will leave you to Phasma’s ministrations, then,” Kylo grins, pulling her limp hand to his mouth for a wet kiss before she snaps it away.

“But! Wait!”

“What is it, my love?”

“I- are you really going to leave the ceiling like that? Where anyone who comes in here can see it?” She’s perhaps more prudish than she’s believed herself, heat-fasting or no. “You cannot possibly mean to leave it!”

“I most certainly do intend to leave it,” he declares with a haughty smirk.

“Wh-why?” she cries.

His lip curls up and she wants to slap the arrogance off his face. “Well, I find it rather inspiring to the imagination. And perhaps it will encourage more amorous interest on your part, my darling.”

“Well…well…I think it’s… _quite_ distasteful!”

He cocks his head and says firmly, “Leave us,” and she knows his words are not meant for her.

Captivated, Rey barely registers when Phasma and Mitaka quietly slip behind their respective doors.

Kylo pulls her close, so close her chest brushes against his tunic, and he combs his fingers into her hair, tipping her head back so he can pull her closer still.

“Forgive me if I assumed your tastes to be somewhat more cultivated. Surely that,” his eyes flick upward then back to hers, “is not such a dreadful prospect? Finding desire in the arms of one such as me?” 

A hint of curiosity glimmers in his gaze. And something else. A sort of fervent hopefulness that makes Rey’s belly writhe with warm flutters.

His proximity and the sudden heat and his scent, floating around her like the softest cloud, is hypnotic, delicious-

_Alpha._

He tips his dark head, eyes fixed hungrily on her mouth before his lips press against hers. The gentlest puff of air sends her thoughts skipping out of her head and she recalls his very informative demonstration on kissing the night before. She opens her mouth for him immediately this time, eager to resume their previous lesson.

Is it immoral for her not to mind so terribly this _particular_ part of her mission?

His breath warms her mouth, then his tongue invades, but so gently, so insidiously, she doesn’t even realize she’s moaning encouragement until they’re gasping together, him grasping her by the waist, bending her back until she's only supported by him.

He comes up for air and flashes her a lazy smile and she whines, actually _whines aloud_ like…like an animal.

_Don’t stop…_

And he doesn’t stop. He simply braces her against one steely arm and uses his free hand to tug at the top of her gown until he exposes the tip of her breast. His warm, wet mouth returns to her skin, kissing down her neck until pleasure tingles all the way to the bottoms of her feet, making her toes curl. When he softly, carefully, and oh-so-deliberately wraps his lips around her puckered nipple and pulls on it with a perfect, exquisite suck, she gasps with such wanton readiness he smiles again.

His eyes are open now, watching as he suckles her until she’s sure she’s going to die if he stops. She probably should tell him to cease, but she simply cannot find the will to do it, although neither can she bring herself to beg for more. A soft whimper escapes her, then another, as he rolls the delicate peak between his tongue and teeth before withdrawing and blowing softly until it puckers into a tight bud.

A deep ache forms in the pit of her belly, low and insistent and she whimpers, half-afraid something is wrong with her.

“You are going to be _very_ satisfactory bed sport, I think. How utterly enchanting.”

He doesn’t give her time to reply as he spins her and pulls her to drape across him, pressing her back against his solid chest. She reaches up and behind in search of an anchor and finds only him to cling to. Her fingers push into his sinfully luxurious hair and she knows if he releases her now, she will crumple to the floor.

His long nose nudges at the gland aside her neck and he gasps hotly against her skin, “How wet are you? Here? _Tell me,_ little one.”

She feels a large, warm hand slide over her gown and cup between her legs and _squeeze_. Another wash of heat floods her and an embarrassing wetness trickles against her thighs. She cannot answer, and it’s too much effort to speak or think, so she moans again.

“Never mind. I can fucking _smell_ it.” He squeezes again and clucks his tongue. “Gods, _fuck_ , you’re soaking right through your bedgown, sweetheart.”

His fingers dig into her waist and he growls and presses hot, sucking kisses along her neck and shoulder before whispering hoarsely into her ear, “It’s tomorrow, the Knotted Moon…and our wedding…and mating…can you wait so long?”

She can feel a tremble in his arms as he once again licks gently at her scent gland and she shamelessly arches her neck so he can have better access. When he sweeps her hair aside and presses a soft kiss over her mating gland, another gush of slick coats her thighs and she sobs, wordlessly and wholly lost.

“Gods above, you’re…so pretty…such a good, sweet little Omega…”

His teeth nibble at her ear and for one reckless second, she almost asks him to keep going, to beg him to never stop, to promise she’ll be so good, swear she'll do anything he asks, if only he will make this melting heat unfurling inside her _stop._

But, he croons, “Are you quite _sure_ you find this distasteful?” and it’s as if he’s dashed cold water in her face. Damn him.

The mischief sparking his gaze does nothing for her peace of mind. Reluctantly, she recalls her purpose here and takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to stiffen her resolve with a dignified sniff. But when he releases his hold, she feels strangely empty. Disappointed.

He’s wearing his typical satirical smile like a mask, and she cannot help but wonder why he is not rendered as speechless as she is after these last few moments.

In fact, he's rather aloof when he finally mutters, “Run along, then. We’ll see each other again soon enough.”

Only after she’s hurried through the door where Phasma awaits her does she realize he held her in the exact pose of Hades holding his Persephone in that dratted painting on the ceiling.

Kylo sits complacently in his rooms and allows Mitaka to fuss over his hair, although in truth his mind is far away.

Well. Perhaps not _too_ far. Just in the apartments nearby, actually. On _her_.

The tension between them is growing unbearable, but he knows he must endure another full day of ceremony and pomp before he can finally get her naked and in his bed, where she belongs. From there, his imagination has no trouble whatsoever conjuring vivid fantasies of chasing his soon-to-be bride from one side of his mattress to the other.

Fuck. The scent of her alone is already enough to knock the wind out of him.

He is dangerously close to losing control, especially after kissing her like that. She couldn’t possibly know how close he was, how close he _is_ to allowing his discipline to slip away.

Her utter lack of experience is too addictive, and he is thrown off by this, knowing her every reaction is unfeigned.

Kylo is no stranger to sex, but somehow, having had the most practiced courtesans in the realms pales significantly in comparison to Rey’s little squeaks of surprised passion or throaty moans of encouragement.

And he definitely wants to hear more of that. But first things, first.

After the Blood Oath, they will retire early to rest, in anticipation of their wedding on the morrow, and Kylo looks forward to an hour or two of peace after so many months and weeks of hunting for _her_. Not to mention the battle to acquire her and everything that followed.

Thankfully, the feasting doesn’t start until after their wedding and they will only be expected to attend the first part of the feast. And then, they shall withdraw to his rooms for a few days.

He wonders if someone will inform Rey, according to custom, it is up to the bride to determine when they exit the wedding feast and decides he rather hopes she remains ignorant of this fact. She’s just stubborn enough to resist and drag it out from sheer obstinacy, heat or no. And she’s on the brink of it. He could practically taste it earlier when he had her bent over his arm.

Despite his endless anticipation, the afternoon passes relatively quickly as he bathes and is shaved and primped and manicured, readying himself for the evening’s ritual betrothal before the members of the High Court.

He grins, wondering how things are proceeding in her rooms. Likely Phasma has her hands full in _properly_ grooming her new mistress. Kylo made it clear he wanted his new bride _completely_ readied for him, and he is fully aware it will involve some uncomfortable procedures on Rey’s part and is further unconcerned over how difficult it might be for Phasma to convince his bride to be to go along and lie still long enough to–

A loud crash just outside interrupts his train of thought and he waves Mitaka away, rushing through his parlor and into the antechamber to find the cause of the commotion.

It’s Rey, of course.

He quickly discerns she’s smashed a vase full of flowers in her attempt to escape Phasma, who glowers from the doorway of Rey’s rooms.

“My lady, you must…you _cannot_ go any longer in that state…it simply isn’t proper.” For her part, Phasma sounds aggrieved.

Rey reaches for another vase and flings it at the marble fireplace in a spectacular show of temper.

“I will _not!”_ she bellows rather magnificently.

“What in the name of Zeus’s bloody knot is all this caterwauling?” Kylo thunders, stepping into the room. “Surely a painful murder at the least?”

Rey spies him and clutches the gaping sides of her bedrobe together. Clearly, she was in the middle of dressing when she ran out here. He shifts his stormy gaze to Phasma for an explanation, trying his best to ignore Rey’s mouthwatering scent.

“There’s no need to be angry,” Phasma soothes, moving her gaze back to Rey. It is probably wise of her to do so, since Rey sidles closer to another table, whereupon which rests another floral arrangement.

“This is me _annoyed_ …you do _not_ want to see me angry.”

“What is so annoying, my love?” he intervenes, lowering his tones to genuinely perplexed. Rey turns on him so quickly and furiously, he steps back before remembering he is the Supreme Leader and she is half his size and she can do him no harm in her current state of _dishabille_.

Phasma answers in the wake of Rey’s ringing silence. “My lord, I am simply trying to groom her _ladyship_ as you instructed, and she’s remarkably persistent in her belief that she should remain _covered_ in hair.”

Phasma says this last as if it offends her entirely too much.

Rey looks beyond mortified at Phasma's revelation, and Kylo catches Phasma’s meaning easily enough.

“I will not!” Rey stomps her foot.

“It’s unsightly!” Phasma argues back, not without her own formidable temper.

“It isn’t!” Rey shouts, snagging a vase full of flowers from the table and stomping her foot again. With her blood up like this, she might as well be waving a red flag in front of a rathtar, so tempted is Kylo to simply drag her by the hair back to his room and devour her.

“Enough!” he chokes, reining himself in with some effort. “Gods be damned. Enough of this nonsense.”

Rey whirls on him and hurls her vase at his head and he’s lucky he’s fast because, had he not dodged in time, she’d have murdered him on the spot.

Damn. Her aim is rather impeccable. Kylo decides this is another mark in her favor, but he is unable to endure another moment of her intoxicating smell.

He assumes his most menacing expression and in three quick strides gets to Rey before another vase finds its way into her hand. She glares up at him but he grasps her by the arms and he nearly moans like a drunkard when he catches her scent at this proximity.

It’s _definitely_ growing stronger.

He gives her a rough shake and barks, “I have already warned you it is easier to surrender to my wishes, have I not?”

She shakes her head rebelliously and he grits out, “If you do not submit yourself to Phasma and be made _properly_ presentable for this evening, then I swear to the gods I will order my soldiers to come in here and assist, no matter how degrading it may be for you.”

“Presentable? You cannot expect me to believe I will be publicly displaying any part of my intimate anatomy during this evening’s ceremony?” she snaps.

He narrows his eyes and another wave of her scent crashes into him, nearly rendering him insensate. He gives her another shake.

“You _will_ be appropriately groomed, as _I_ prefer, my love. Or have you so quickly disregarded our earlier conversation? I thought I made myself quite clear? You may keep your heart…but the rest of you belongs to _me._ ” He turns to Phasma. “If she gives you any more resistance, send for me at once.”

Against his every instinct, he releases her and storms away, knowing damned well it’s a retreat.

But if he remains in her presence for another second, he’s going to do something unwise.

And Kylo Ren is anything but a fool. Especially when it comes to women. 


	7. A Change of Course

# Chapter Seven – A Change of Course

_You must bend, but not break. You must bow to fate and be willing to alter it at a moment’s notice. You might make a decision one day that could impact billions of lives years later. That is the weight of rule._

_But we must lose many if we are to save more. We cannot fight on a front where he can win. His strength lies in the sheer number of his troops, in the vast resources he commands. His military strategists are wise and seasoned in battle. He will gather these forces to him and brandish them without mercy to crush the galaxy into submission. So we will not fight him there._

_The best use of our Resistance fighters is to spend them in the gambit that will position you on the inside. Luke will use his place as First Speaker in the Free Senate as a decoy and a distraction; I will do my best to cultivate more systems to our side, but it will take time, as much as you can buy us._

_Our first priority is to delay the inevitable: Kylo Ren intends to follow in his grandfather’s, my father’s, footsteps and marry a high-ranking personage so he can beget heirs and establish an Imperial Monarcy. And in so doing, thus claim the title of Galactic Imperial Emperor._

Frustrated, Rey grudgingly enters her rooms and, at Phasma’s gesture, returns to the gorgeously tiled washroom which is larger than her bedroom was back on Jakku. Hell, the washroom is larger than the convent’s dining hall back on Jakku.

A small fire burns in a tiny, ceramic stove set into the wall. She can smell some kind of sweet-scented wood, which must be incredibly expensive to use as fuel, as Rey knows the entire planet of Coruscant is one large metropolis. They must import it from somewhere.

Next to a massive tub, plumbed to fill with steaming-hot water at the turn of a faucet, sits a cushioned table upon which Phasma and her assistant have draped towels and linens. It is in fact where Rey is enduring the most intrusive “bath” she’s ever experienced in her life.

On Jakku, she bathed as often as water was delivered to her corner of the planet and was always under the assumption so long as she scrubbed the parts that got dirty and cleaned her teeth and kept her hair free from tangles, she was sufficiently clean.

When Rose came to stay with her after Rey’s betrothal to Luke Skywalker, Rose assisted with things Rey had never bothered with before, like trimming her hair and polishing her nails and rubbing lovely scented lotions and creams into her skin. And Rey always figured this was the height of a lady’s toilette.

Not according to Phasma.

In the process of being “properly” groomed, Rey has been poked, prodded, and scrubbed _vigorously_ , then buffed, rinsed, and polished until she wants to scream at the tedium of it all. Her hair alone has taken hours and hours of unrelenting labor.

And now, after having endured the most painful and humiliating process of, as Phasma so delicately put it, “removing those tail-feathers”, not to mention having every _other_ hair on her body ripped out rather violently with hot wax, Rey is tired, cranky, and in no mood for much more of anything.

Although Phasma has spread a soothing cream over every inch of her, promising the worst is over, Rey has had enough, and she belligerently demands something to eat.

Apparently sensing she’s won the greater part of the day, Phasma agrees she should be allowed a small repast to tide her through the remainder of her toilette, and Rey sips her tea, once again taking stock of the rooms she’s been granted.

A very pretty cage, indeed.

Through the arched door of the entryway she shares with Kylo, lies a small, elegant sitting room just for her. Alongside this room is a fascinating little circular room, which appears to be built inside a small tower. The room is tall and is filled with books.

Rey has never had access to real books before, and she finds herself somewhat overwhelmed that the ones lining every inch of the small library belong to her now.

Beyond her sitting room is her bedchamber, a large, airy space with a lovely, enormous bed draped in elegant blue curtains. Just through the bedchamber lies a washroom tiled in luminescent shades of pale blue and white.

Every inch of furniture is carved in ornate swirls and leaves and flowers in perfect, gilded detail. Rey, who has never really been exposed to plants or flowers unless on a holocron screen, finds the artistry fascinating and intimidating in equal measures.

Another door beside the washroom reveals a dressing room nearly as large as the bedroom. The dressing room holds row upon row of magnificent gowns, and Rey was surprised to find earlier, upon her initial inspection of the rooms, several women at the back, hunched over a sewing table and working on her wedding gown in an atmosphere of frantic, but controlled chaos.

According to Phasma, they’ve been working round the clock, sleeping in turn on a pallet against the wall, so the dress might be ready in time.

Had she more time, Rey would have stayed and watched in fascination as the women’s nimble fingers added row after row of jet beadwork to the blood-red silk, setting the beads into swirling patterns interspersed with tiny red jewels and glittery golden thread. It will shimmer quite prettily in the Great Hall's enchanted floor, Rey thought.

In addition to the gown, the seamstresses have started sewing new underthings, petticoats, stockings, and even a gorgeous pair of satin gloves in the deepest shade of red, so dark they appear almost black.

When Rey asks why she needs a new wedding gown when so many other dresses are available, the head seamstress looks rather scandalized and replies, “You must match his Lordship, my lady. His coat is already finished.”

Another one pipes in, “We will be done very soon, never fear. It will be ready for your wedding tomorrow. It will be lovely, madam.”

Rey doesn’t bother to correct her form of address, knowing she will be referred to as “madam” or “my lady” soon enough.

Grumpily, she eats a few dainty sandwiches and drinks tea until Phasma acerbically reminds her a trip to pee in the middle of the Blood Oath ceremony will not be permitted.

The sandwiches disappear all too quickly, and Rey wonders where she might find heartier fare. She briefly considers wandering over to Kylo’s rooms to see if _he_ has more substantial sustenance and if he might be willing to share it. Then she remembers she will need to walk beneath that _galling_ ceiling to get there and also she’s furious with him.

She knows Phasma's efforts have done her no lasting harm, but she feels _very_ strange. The extensive scrubbing has brought a soft glow to her skin and her scent is more potent than ever.

And having all of her body hair removed presents her with the unexpected consequence of extreme sensitivity to touch. She is suddenly quite conscious of the way her satin robe slips against her skin, of how her every movement has become almost _erotic,_ somehow.

Her mind returns to Kylo and she wonders if he has undergone similar preparations for her.

Wryly, she doubts it. A nervousness quivers through her belly just thinking about him in the rooms next door, bathing or being shaved or doing whatever it is he's doing to ready himself for this evening. He seems to most eagerly anticipate their mating, even if she isn’t sure how she feels about it.

She recalls Leia’s advice for when things don’t go according to plan, as now. _Like a game of Dejarik,_ Leia had metaphorized.

_You must be strategic and ready to make spur-of-the-moment choices. You must be willing to sacrifice yourself and others to the cause, without hesitation._

_When the game takes unexpected turns, you must be clever and use what leverage you have. You must be what he needs in order to gain what you need._

_He’s already of royal blood. He doesn’t need a princess. He needs something unique, something that will strengthen his claim, make him infallible; a Golden Blood will garner support from the Church, not just the nobles or the commoners. And you need the common people on your side, which means they must be on his side, too, at first._

_You will need to adapt to any situation, but remember the long game, the end game._

_You must engage his mind, his innate need for the hunt. You must be at once his prey and his reward, an intriguing mystery and transparent as glass._

_We know he’s sent spies and he will assume you will naturally resist his advances. It will seem odd to him if you suddenly surrender on every front; so you must bend where it makes sense to bend and give over if it will buy his trust._

Perhaps her outburst earlier had been a touch dramatic.

Rey admits she’s more volatile than she might otherwise be. The moon cycle is certainly at least partially at fault for her pendulum of emotional outbursts. And the rest of the blame can be placed clearly at the feet of her handsome, mercurial nemesis.

Leia’s own son, and Luke Skywalker’s nephew.

_He will not trust you until he believes he has wholly won you over to his side. If we were executing guerrilla warfare, such subtlety would not be needed._

_We could send you in to assassinate him, certainly._

_And we could win a portion of success that might last a for a small measure of time._

_But in the end, a new power would only rise up, just as he rose from the ashes of his grandfather’s empire. What we seek to do is restructure the course of history._

Under the weight of her musings, time passes quickly.

_Time is the one thing I cannot waste._

But, before she knows it, her hair has been braided and curled and Phasma is overseeing final touches to her appearance. Rey sits very still as a maid applies the barest touch of kohl to bring out her eyes and a light dusting of shimmery powder over her cheekbones. The maid moves to brush more powder over Rey's décolletage, but Phasma interrupts with a shake of her head and a soft dismissal.

She gazes into the mirror above her vanity and takes a deep breath, somewhat surprised to find an elegant, beautiful woman looking back at her. Her hair shines in the soft light, and her skin has taken on an otherworldly glow.

Phasma murmurs approval. “You look quite lovely, my lady. Every inch a princess. Truly a match for our Supreme Leader.”

Rey replies with more haughty assurance than she feels, “I am a Golden Blood. There are none like me.”

_You are a symbol of life and prosperity, of the survival of our species. You are unmatched._

Bolstered by the memory of Leia's words, Rey lifts her chin and orders Phasma to proceed with the final touches, securing a blood-red cloak over her shoulders and slipping delicate little embroidered slippers onto her feet. Other than this, Rey wears only a simple gown that disconcertingly resembles the bedgown she wore upon her arrival at the palace.

Anxious, she points out this fact, but Phasma promises she is properly attired.

“The Blood Oath is a simple betrothal ceremony, meant to be witnessed by only a few close friends and family, but since neither bride nor groom has those readily available, it will be attended by a handful of military and political acquaintances of the groom. And I will be there, too, on your ladyship’s behalf.”

Phasma runs a final, critical eye over her and Rey momentarily wishes she is wearing something more substantial, something more regal. Something that doesn’t make her so _aware_ of her impending heat and how she's going to be spending the next few days.

_You are young, beautiful, curious. You will have no trouble with physical compatibility, I’m sure. Men are fools, and men in rut are even bigger fools. He will take your physical submission as a sign of your mental compliance, as well. You will sacrifice many things before this is done. Your body, your dignity, even your freedom._

_But, once he trusts you, once he believes you are his and his alone, then you will make your move. And it will be a play to alter the course of destiny._

“This is going to be quick, yes?” Rey asks, hauling her thoughts back to the present and wishing she had more time to calm the anxiety in her heart. “Just a brief exchange before the High Priest in the Great Hall?”

“Yes, my lady, very brief. All you must do is follow the Supreme Leader’s prompts. He will not lead you astray, have no fear.”

“Thank you, Phasma.” His deep voice startles her as he enters the room. A distinctly predatory light gleams in his eyes and Rey catches her breath at the sight of him.

He’s wearing a fresh tunic, similar to the one he wore earlier, in unrelieved black, only this one looks new and crisp. Like Rey, he has a heavy red cape draped across his shoulders, although his does not have a hood as her cloak does.

His dark hair has been freshly trimmed and combed back from his forehead and his face has been shaved smooth. Like hers, his scent seems to have grown more potent.

… _ooooh, gods, he smells…so delicious…_

He moves closer and another wave of his scent hits her, making her almost tipsy, as if she’s had too much wine. Suddenly she can’t breathe, and she wants to run her fingers through his hair and feel his arms around her again. She finds a similar interest kindling in him, though he seems to manage himself remarkably well.

“It is time.” He looks just slightly suspicious and she knows he’s wondering if she’s going to start throwing vases again. “Come. I shall escort you to the High Priest.”

Moving to his side, she is acutely aware of her scant underclothes and the way her skin glides so freely, so _sensuously_ against the soft fabric of her loose-fitting gown.

When she takes his arm, he leans close to whisper, “This won’t take long, thank the gods.”

She doesn’t bother to ask him why he’s thankful – his meaning is perfectly obvious by the heady scent of desire pouring off his skin.

Her hand trembles a little, but she lifts her chin and says nothing, allowing him to lead her through the antechamber, beneath that horrid painting which she refuses to look upon, and back into the small gallery lined with Omicron soldiers standing at attention.

This time he guides her more directly into the Great Hall, rather than taking the roundabout route he used earlier.

As they walk, she pulls in a deep breath and says in her best conciliatory voice, “I, um, I acted quite rashly earlier. I meant you no harm when I, ah, threw that vase at you. I think my temper might be a little unpredictable right now, given the, er, the moon.”

To her surprise, he pats the hand resting in the crook of his elbow and grunts, “Well, perhaps I was a bit overbearing, as well. But gods be damned, I-”

He presses his lips together and she wonders if he’s ever apologized for anything in his whole life. Instead of goading him to finish his sentence, she peers around curiously.

The sun is setting, and she can tell it is moonrise through the colorful windows to either side of the Great Hall’s huge doors. The floor glows with sparkling light and she watches it for a bit before she notices.

The Hall is empty, much to her unexpected consternation.

“I thought this was to be a small ceremony, and yet I see no witnesses! And where is the High Priest?”

“I've decided to conduct the ceremony outside,” Kylo answers. “I would make my vows on the palace steps before the people, as my grandfather did when he was betrothed.”

The noise of the crowd rumbles outside, but the people do not cheer quite so loudly as before. It is as if the entire city holds itself in breathless expectation.

Her soon-to-be groom watches her, hawk-like. “The High Priest awaits us. Are you all right?”

But her hands are suddenly shaking, and she realizes he can smell her tension.

“You’re not going to make a scene, I hope,” he hisses severely. “Because this is happening, one way or the other.”

“I’ll _do_ it,” she snaps. “I…I just…I’m unsure of _what_ to do, exactly.”

He pauses and waves Phasma and a few others to precede them through the doors. He stares down at her, waiting until they are alone.

Then he takes her hand and suddenly he looks terribly serious and handsome and vulnerable. He examines her newly manicured nails for a few minutes, stroking a thumb over her palm until she whispers, “Please.”

She isn’t sure if she’s asking him to stop or keep going.

Finally, he says gently, “All you needs do is pick a spot and prick me with a dagger, and then you ought to beg my forgiveness and kiss the wound.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“It sounds too easy. You’re not trying to trick me, are you?”

He lifts a brow and a hint of playful charm enters his voice. “No trick. Though I hope you choose somewhere on my person appropriate for public scrutiny. Perhaps a finger or a wrist…?” he hints, smoothing his thumb along her jaw as if he cannot hold back from caressing her.

“Are you not afraid I will take advantage and injure you?” she scoffs, trying desperately to turn her attention from his mesmerizing stare. “Perhaps a cut to jugular?”

“I’m not afraid of a little thing like you,” he murmurs, and his eyes glint with a strange light. “You should know the location and position of your cut will be representative of our marriage. Surely you would not have our people think you bloodthirsty and vindictive? Though if you intend to bleed me out on the palace steps, it might not be such a bad way to go, so long as you kiss me goodbye, first.”

She swallows the lump rising at the back of her throat, trying not to think of kissing him and trying even more fervently to ignore the unsubtle lust hanging heavily in the air between them.

"All right?"

She nods. "All right."

He guides her to the doors and Coruscant's humid, stinky air hits her nose, though significantly less nauseating in the evening chill.

They arrange themselves near the edge of the platform at the top of the steps, and Rey belatedly notices the High Priest in full regalia, looking on with a watery blue gaze that makes her skin crawl.

The High Priest says nothing, only gives a nod. To her surprise, the crowd below remains almost pensive.

_Everyone is watching. The entire galaxy is watching._

Torches flare to life, seeming to light the eyes of everyone on the platform with red flames. Overhead, the moon looms nearly full, hovering over the horizon rather ominously to illuminate the vague, swarming mass of people far below.

With a graceful flourish, Kylo presents a dagger, sheathed in white leather made from some unknown creature and encrusted with jewels that look like blood-red rubies or garnets. The handle is white, too, and Rey briefly wonders if the thing is made of bone and of whom or from what it might have originated.

“Choose your place well,” he prompts with a teasing spark in his eyes.

Eager to get the whole strange ceremony over and done with, she slides the dagger from its sheath. For a bare moment, she exchanges a look with Kylo like she’s considering going for his jugular after all.

He winks and tilts his head suggestively, as if to tell her to try it and see what happens. Her belly flutters with wild urgency. Before she can change her mind, she snatches up his hand. He does not resist but holds himself still and she lightly, too lightly at first, brings the edge of the blade to the inside of his wrist.

Her eyes flash to his. She’s never intentionally hurt someone before, she realizes. Not with a knife. Not like this. It’s very personal, what she’s about to do. Much, _much_ more personal than reciting a few meaningless words.

A sudden wave of nausea crashes into her. She isn’t sure she can do this.

Their gazes lock, and he perceives her dilemma. Before she can stop him, his other hand moves up to wrap around hers, pressing just hard enough to cause a drop of blood, then another, to run down into the sleeve of his tunic.

“Oh!” she exclaims with genuine surprise. “I’m so sorry! I–”

His mouth pulls into a smirk and he prompts, “Don’t forget the rest of it, my love.”

_Right. Kiss it._

He gently takes his dagger and she lifts his wrist with both hands to kiss the tiny cut.

But the instant her lips touch him, a deep ache thrums into her core, so powerful she moans.

Suddenly, the scent and taste of him overwhelm her senses in a rush of energy she cannot define. His eyes pull her in and she cannot look away. Her knees shake and she tastes him again, sinking deeper into that _feeling_ , not even trying to stop herself as she flicks her tongue against his smooth, warm flesh, until his mouth falls open and he gasps raggedly.

_Why…? Oh, gods, it’s his scent, his gland is right there and, oh, he smells sooo good and he tastes…so good._

She smooths her tongue over the wound, dismayed by her own eagerness but unable to help from drawing another drop of blood into her mouth with a careful suck.

His hand trembles in hers but he does not pull away. Her entire body tenses. She tries desperately to stop…because this is madness, what she's doing, tasting him, her enemy.

_I can’t…I can’t stop this…oh, gods, I can feel his pulse…he’s…_

“Rey,” he whispers hoarsely.

She drops his wrist as if he’s burning, the essence of him still hot on her tongue and she’s going to collapse into a puddle, right here on the steps if he doesn’t _hurry._

_Hurry…I need to…I can’t…_

He takes up her hand and she knows if he does it, that _thing_ , back to her she’ll faint. She’s sure of it.

Panting lightly and he stares back at her and time bends and stops. Under his intense perusal, nothing exists, not even the High Priest just a few feet away, watching their every move.

But instead of doing the thing she expects and pricking her wrist as she did his, Kylo jerks her arm close, until she stumbles and crashes against his chest.

“Wha-?”

His lips curl into a determined snarl and for just a moment she wonders if he is going to bite her here and now on the palace steps. His jaw clenches and he grits out, “I’ve changed my mind.”

Before she can stop him, the edge of his blade is nudging her cloak away from her bosom and he is hooking his finger into the top of her gown and tugging it low enough to nearly expose her nipple.

His tongue sweeps over his bottom lip and he carefully and elegantly pricks her, just above her heart. He exhales, slowly, triumph written over his face, and she remembers this man is an _expert_ bloodletter, that he’s executed more than one person right here on these very steps, including his own father, possibly with this very same dagger and she doesn’t even feel the sting of his cut.

She can only hear the blunt declaration delivered for her ears alone.

“Forgive me, my darling, but I’ve decided I would have _all_ of you, after all," he breathes. "Your heart, too.”

Naked greed glitters in his eyes as he presses in ruthlessly, bracing an arm behind her until her back arches and she grips his shoulders, instinctively clinging to the only solidity she can find in the sudden maelstrom.

“Mine.”

He holds her gaze as his perfect mouth dips to the line of red trickling down the swell of her breast, his tongue swiping ardently over her delicate skin until unstoppable, relentless need pools between her thighs.

His eyes flutter shut and he places a hot sucking kiss that shoots deep, melting shudders into the very core of her being. Her head falls back, every muscle tensing when he moans and shifts her into a better position so he can take whatever he wants.

_Yes, Alpha._

His mouth is hot and wet, his hair soft and silky against her and a tear slips free before she can stop it, because this, _this_ is what she was made for, what she exists to do, to let him take, to melt for him.

"So good for me. So _sweet_ ," His low exclamation sends another curl of pleasure dissolving into her bones, and enthralled, she sinks into luscious, swirling darkness once again.

Nothing exists but him and the darkness until he slows, then stops. She _can’t_ have fainted because she can hear the High Priest chuckling lewdly and the instant, unbelievable roar of the crowd below.

She wonders why they cheer with such enthusiasm, and she perceives Kylo Ren has made an uncharacteristically romantic gesture before all of Coruscant.

And the rest of the galaxy.

When he finally lifts his head, his lips shiny and far too red, he gives her a lazy smile that belies the ferocious warning in his voice.

“Hasten back to your room, little one. You would be wise to bar the doors. I will see you on the morrow for our wedding. Then we shall finish this, you and I.”

For a moment, she blinks up at him rather stupidly, her heart pounding a wild tempo that she knows exactly matches his.

He presses a kiss to her limp hand in a gesture of farewell, even as Phasma tugs urgently on her other arm.

The crowds roar once again with such obvious elation, the building quakes. And Rey whirls to follow Phasma back inside without looking back, knowing tomorrow they won’t be finishing a damned thing.

They’re just getting started.


	8. God of Death

# Chapter Eight – God of Death

They hustle back to her rooms so quickly, she is panting for breath by the time they arrive.

Phasma bars the door to the antechamber, then hurries Rey into her bedchamber and bars the door there, too.

“But, how will you leave?” Rey asks tentatively.

She isn’t sure she wants to spend the night with the tall, austere woman standing guard over her. Not in her current state of mind, when she is so flustered by what just happened on the palace steps.

In answer, Phasma walks to a carved panel in the wall and opens it, revealing a hidden door. “Another entrance, although impossible to access from outside the palace. There are tunnels carved into the very bedrock of the planet. Your servants use the passages to bring food and fuel and clean linens, my lady.”

Rey immediately wonders if the tunnels might lead to an escape, but Phasma says gently, “You will find it as well guarded as the other doors to your chambers.”

Curious, Rey peers beyond and sure enough, instead of finding a hallway, she sees roughly hewn walls carved into eerie reddish-black stone, lit with torches and lined with Omicrons who snap to attention in unison as they see her.

“Where do the tunnels lead?” she asks. 

“All over the palace, my lady. To the kitchens, the baths, the servant’s quarters. It’s quite complex and one can become easily disoriented if one is unfamiliar.”

Phasma takes Rey's cloak and passes it to a waiting maid, who will brush it out and hang it in the wardrobe.

“Um, what about _him_?” Rey mutters, seating herself at the vanity before an engraved mirror. "Can he get in here? From there?"

She catches her reflection only to find a stranger staring back. Surely her eyes have never looked so huge, nor has her skin ever blushed so readily. As if waiting for his touch.

Rey begins unpinning her braids until Phasma’s much defter fingers sweep in to finish the work.

“His lordship may come and go as he pleases, though I will set an extra pair of guards outside this chamber when I leave.”

But surely this precaution will be futile. No one, not even an Omicron, would attempt to stop Kylo Ren from doing whatever he wants.

Phasma takes up a brush and begins to pull it lightly through Rey’s hair. In her mind, they have already spent more than enough time on her hair for one day, but the routine soothes her.

Back on Jakku, she and Rose used to take turns brushing each other’s hair every night and whispering nonsensical things and giggling and dreaming of the future, talking of when they would bravely undertake their duties to the cause and postulating on what wonderful adventures they would have.

A pang of guilt stabs her when she realizes she’s hardly given Rose a thought in the past hours, since her mind has been so diverted with other things.

 _I expect I shall continue to occupy a great many of your thoughts from now until the very end of your days_.

She inhales deeply and tries to relax, wondering if the Resistance was able to find Leia or if anyone received word of the Supreme Leader's betrothal and very imminent wedding.

_He was right about my thoughts. He wants my heart, too. And that is the one thing he shall never have._

_My heart already belongs to the Resistance._

Kylo marches to his rooms, hands fisted at his sides as he does his best not to chase after her.

After Phasma wisely dragged her away, he took a few moments to wave at the roaring crowds and converse politely with the High Priest, generally assuring himself Rey had more than enough time to return to her rooms and bar the doors before taking his leave and returning to his apartments.

Her outside door is barred, and he is on the brink of temptation. 

If he really wants in, he knows without a doubt nothing can stop him. Not a soul would dare offend him, especially now, with him being near feral and on the verge of rut.

Nevertheless, he bursts into his chambers with every intention of distracting himself.

He can wait another day, even though he doesn’t technically have to. His mating bond with the Golden Blood will be considered legitimate enough, regardless of whether their union is officially blessed by the Church.

But it matters to him. He means their wedding to be a symbolic act, a demonstration to his family. When he told Rey he would ensure his claim will be legitimate in all possible ways, thorough and irrefutable, he was sincere.

So, he will wait.

This is what he tells himself until he is visited by an intense desire to look at her.

Several barred doors lie between them, but even so, he is sure he can smell the delicious notes of her scent. Surely no harm can come from only looking?

He’s still debating the wisdom of sneaking over to check on her when Mitaka enters his room.

“Milord, I bring news of your mother, and I fear it is not good,” Mitaka says quietly, bowing with respect, although Ren catches a trace of fear.

He lifts a brow and Mitaka lays it out with a blunt, “She has escaped, and our men and ship are gone, milord.”

Kylo's jaw clamps down so hard he might crack a molar.

“My mother…stole a ship?” he grits through his teeth.

Mitaka pales, not mistaking the coldly growled inquiry for anything less than all-consuming rage.

“We believe she had help, milord. From the Resistance.”

Mitaka holds himself very still, consummately professional, as always, and a tiny part of Kylo is impressed by the young man’s composure.

“Help? How?”

“Her location can only have been provided by someone who already knew her ship was stopped to make repairs, and the only ones who knew this at the time were aboard my lord's cruiser."

"And?"

"We performed a hyperscan of all outgoing communications from your cruiser and found something, a sub-space communication sent from the command panel just outside your quarters, milord. It corresponds with the timeframe of your betrothed's escape attempt.”

“Was it the Alpha who was overpowered by her?”

“His codes were used, but we do not believe him to be the culprit, milord, since he was incapacitated when we found him. He is unable to recall anything after checking on _her,_ although we believe he was probably coerced into giving his access codes.”

“And the communication you found. What, specifically, did it say?”

When Mitaka tells him, Kylo’s vision goes temporarily red. It can only have been Rey who sent it, and her purposes cannot be more clear or insulting.

Which is particularly irksome when he considers his grand gesture on the palace steps just now. 

_I as much as declared us a love match before the entire galaxy. I thought to show benevolence to the Omega and win the hearts of the people in a single stroke._

_Never let it be said I do not learn from my errors._

“If the ship is missing, can we not track it?” He’s holding back severe irritation by a bare thread, but he knows lashing out at Mitaka will serve no purpose. 

“We are trying to lock onto the ship’s signal, milord, but there is nothing. It’s as if the ship has vanished.”

“Keep trying. Let me know the _instant_ we have more information.”

“Yes, milord.” Mitaka bows and rushes from the room.

Rey.

She wasn’t trying to escape. She was helping his mother escape. And conspiring with the Resistance.

And if this is the case, there is more to her than he originally assumed.

_She is not as helpless as she appears and infinitely more devious than I thought she could be._

Instead of ripping tapestries from the walls or smashing furniture as he might have done years ago, he flings himself into a cushioned chair beside the elegant fireplace and tries to think with cold calculation, replaying the events of her escape attempt.

The obvious answer strikes him almost instantly. If she really wanted to escape, she could have simply overpowered another guard and taken a pod.

But she did not.

She sent the message first, then entered the repair ducts in his ship, hacked into the ship’s system and threatened the bridge with turning off life support.

_Why?_

Again, the answer is immediately apparent.

She meant it to be a distraction. All eyes were on her and the overpowered guard, and then the crew’s full attention was occupied with security since he ordered all of the escape pods ejected.

Not a single crew member slept after he took her from the bridge, either. They were forced to maintain absolute vigilance and ensure they made safe transport to Coruscant. It never would have occurred to anyone to scan for prior outgoing transmissions, so long as they arrived at Coruscant safely.

Boiling-hot rage bubbles into his chest when he realizes just how Rey’s treachery is going to hurt his plans. Leia Organa’s getaway will prevent him from making a show of his mother's coerced and public approval at his wedding tomorrow. He planned on using her to effectively silence the Skywalker’s claim on the Golden Blood.

Deadly fury pours into his veins.

He is halfway through the tunnels to Rey’s rooms before he realizes the delectable taste of her blood is still on his lips.

_She has much to learn._

He changes direction, taking a brief, impulsive detour before resuming his original path, making his way to the sole object of his wrath.

Enraged, he grimly acknowledges the cost of mercy, fully aware he is at fault as much as anyone for allowing himself to become so easily distracted by her charms and once again hindered by the machinations of the Skywalkers.

He cannot take out his anger on his mother at the moment.

But Rey? Oh, absolutely.

_I ought to have recalled the very first lesson my gods-be-damned family taught me so well._

_Compassion and mercy are for the weak._

The soft _whoosh_ of the servants’ panel sliding open is enough to wake her. She’s always been a light sleeper, especially now in a strange new place.

Blinking into the darkness, she recognizes his scent immediately and wonders why he is in her room. Then, a surge of desire swells so powerfully, her breath leaves her in a single rush.

_Alpha. Smells good. Oh…ohhh…I want…_

Disoriented, she is more curious than afraid of his sudden appearance at her bedside. In the shadows, he moves with unobtrusive grace, but somehow his mere presence is enough to dominate the space.

Her room feels rather claustrophobic with him in it.

He switches on her bedside lamp, and she pulls her blankets to her chin, perceiving a threat she cannot pinpoint.

_Oh, gods, what happened? Why is he like this?_

“My mother, that bitch, has escaped,” he informs her, casually inspecting his fingernails as if he is announcing plans for dinner.

Rey feels a moment of relief. If Leia is free, then all will be well. Perhaps Leia can convince Luke to file an injunction in the Free Senate, declaring _prius iura_ , or first rights, as she had suggested in her message.

It will not hold up for long, but the proceedings could delay her marriage to Kylo Ren if Luke argues he has a legal right to marry Rey, since she promised herself to him a year ago.

And while Kylo can easily argue “possession is nine-tenths of the law” and Luke does not have the military force to stop him, any valid legal objections will certainly postpone their wedding if it makes its way to the Church’s court.

_A few months, perhaps half a year. It's something._

But her heart sinks when she takes in the look on her enemy’s face.

She can see it written there, plain as day. He has no intention of allowing things to proceed to court.

Her stomach sinks and the scent of hostility weaves through his torrid, barely restrained hunger, adding a dangerous electricity to the atmosphere. Panicking, she spins to the other side of the bed and runs for the exit, even as he stalks her down and hauls on her arm, turning her to face him and rudely shoving her back until her head knocks against the door.

At the abject fear crossing her face, Kylo feels a momentary rush of gratification.

He should have done things this way from the start and prevented any chance of misunderstanding.

“You, my darling girl, are in very great danger. I will only ask you once. Are you a spy?”

Rey shakes her head _no_ and pushes feebly at his chest.

“I don’t believe you,” he argues. “Upon your capture, you were armed with two beacons. You knew how to access my ship’s communication systems and life support. You knew how to contact the Resistance.”

“A cautionary measure,” she breathes. “I was trained to do so in the event of being taken.”

“Why did you not simply take an escape pod?”

“You would have tracked it and found me right away!” She isn’t looking at him.

“Why alert the Resistance to my mother’s whereabouts? If you had no plans to escape?” He shakes her, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“Because…I…didn’t want…” She pauses to catch her breath. “You said you would _imprison_ her. Leia. Surely you can’t expect me to sit quietly by while she’s delivered to the mercies of your dungeoneer?”

“Just how close are you to my mother?” he asks cannily.

“We became well acquainted in the year after my betrothal to-”

He interrupts before she speaks his uncle’s name. “Surely being mere acquaintances would not inspire such outstanding heroics on your part?”

“I knew you would not hurt me, milord, if I helped her. Not if you intended to marry me and…”

She looks up at him, cautiously, and he sighs.

Her eyes are huge and grow even wider when he announces her fate with simple finality. “You are officially my hostage, as of five minutes ago. Coruscant and all planetary systems belonging to the First Order are now under martial law, effective immediately. It will not be lifted until my mother and my uncle surrender themselves to me. I’ve already sent an announcement to every outpost in the galaxy.”

“What?” she exclaims, attempting to jerk away from him, though it is futile.

“Furthermore, tomorrow, at the Knot of the Moon, I will take you before the High Priest and make a public declaration of my intent to claim you as my _property,_ a very fine distinction from wife, but necessary to demonstrate my point. There will be a modified wedding, and my guests will feast and indulge in a traditional debauch,” he purrs, pulse quickening as he catches the scent of her panic. “I fear we shall miss _that_ part of the festivities altogether. The instant we return to the palace, you and I shall proceed to my rooms and undergo the very pleasurable task of making my heirs.”

Seeing her pale, he leans closer and grips her shoulders, digging his fingers in until she gasps.

“I read your message, the one you sent to my uncle in care of the Resistance. And I cannot begin to tell you how utterly disappointed I am. Or how wholly and entirely I intend to ruin you for attempting to thwart me.”

He allows his threat to hang unspoken between them.

“Ruin?”

“I’ve just declared before my mother and uncle and anyone else who thinks to come for you that I plan to quite thoroughly violate your virtue before they have a chance to save it. If we are legally bound and there’s a chance you are carrying my child…”

_…none can stop me._

He watches the storm in her eyes, unwillingly fascinated as he continues, “The Skywalkers have seven days to surrender themselves into my custody before I start melting planets to the core, beginning with those that make up the Free Systems of the Republic. There will be no trial for _prius iura_ , there will be no question or argument or stopping me. And if you resist, I will bring such destruction upon this galaxy, it will make The Great Devastation look like a child’s birthday game.” His throat burns with rage as he growls this last.

“But…” Rey clamors for an argument, but he knows she can find none.

There is none.

“If you think I won’t hesitate to turn the worlds from one end of the galaxy to the other into a bloody war zone to accomplish my ends, think again. Imagine how many will die if you resist me. Imagine how many will cry out in search of justice that cannot be found. How the people's beloved Golden Blood betrayed them.”

“I could take my life and eliminate your so-called leverage,” she threatens with quiet dignity.

“No,” he tells her with a smug shake of his head. “You aren’t grasping the fullness of the situation, my love. You are my hostage. And so are the people. Every last living soul in existence, they just don’t know it. Nor will they, so long as you do as I command. I am named the God of Death for a reason, Rey. You would do well to remember it.”

She blanches and weaves on her feet.

“Don’t you dare faint on me,” he snaps and her eyes spark fire as his fingers bite into the soft flesh of her upper arms.

“Dare?” she rages, her displeasure evident as she shrugs him off. “Don’t I dare? Don’t _you_ dare touch me, you monster!”

He throws up an arm to block her in against the door before she can duck away.

_Ah. Such a temper. So much fight. I shall greatly enjoy breaking that spirit._

“I could escape you, rally people to _my_ cause,” she spits.

Indignation spills into his heart and he wraps a handful of her hair around his fist, pulling her face close enough to count the freckles across the bridge of her nose. “If you ever run from me it better be to the afterlife, princess.”

She tries to pull away, so he yanks hard, compelling her to look at him. The scent of her is making him drunk, unpredictably temperamental.

“I’ll paint the skies with fire and blood, I promise,” he rasps. “And if and when I find you, because it will only be a matter of time, I’ll make you _wish_ you were there…in the afterlife.”

He dips his head and scrapes his teeth over the bony protrusion of her collarbone. A low murmur of alarm escapes her, and he does it again, reveling in the sound.

She shudders against him and whimpers when his teeth sink into the side of her neck, not quite hard enough to break the skin. The soft little noises coming out of her send a rush of blood to his groin and he presses close, backing her into the door until she has nowhere to flee and he’s salivating at the taste of her, at the _knowing_ of what’s to come.

He sets his mouth to hers and for the briefest moment, he wants her to bite and scratch and fight so he can see what it feels like to conquer her indomitable will.

“You _will_ bend to me, Omega. I will make you. And then you will beg me not to stop,” he vows thickly, his throat constricting as their mutual lust mixes on his tongue, sending white-hot spears of pleasure low into his gut.

She’s on the brink of heat, and he can taste the heady chemical reaction of desire and submission pouring out of her. He can _smell_ it, scent the slick wetness between her legs, and he groans at the thought of taking her maidenhead, at the thought of _that_ blood, what it will smell like, what it will taste like when he claims it.

He deepens his kiss, crudely running his hands over the soft swells of her breasts, pinching carefully at her nipples until they harden into tight little buds at his touch. He finds himself surprised she is allowing him to go this far and is unable to stop himself from trying for more.

 _Just a little more…so good…gods, she's perfect_.

Recklessly, he considers taking her here and now. He would do it, but for the fact it will most certainly send her into heat and him into rut and they’ll be occupied for _days_ and he cannot miss their wedding, not when he is so _very_ close to finishing this.

Nevertheless, he moves his hands from her breasts to her cup around her skull, so he can plunder the sweet softness of her mouth with a few more urgent strokes of his tongue, mingling the two of them together until they taste indefinably like each other, but also like something else, something new. His thumbs stroke the sensitive scent glands on either side her neck, then move to caress her ears and jaw as he unyieldingly kisses her breath away, overtaken by a wild urge to ravish her.

She clings to his shoulders for support, and after a few minutes, he pauses and allows her to catch her breath. While the idea of making her faint in his arms holds a certain appeal, he must not continue like this or he will lose himself.

“You're mine," he pants. "You ever run from me, you better run to the fucking afterlife. Because I’ll grind the pillars of the galaxy to dust to find you, rip planets from the sky. I’ll fucking do it, I swear.”

She glares at him before suddenly shoving him hard in the chest, so surprising him he actually steps back. She attempts to move past him with another shove, but this time he is ready and plants his feet with a grimace.

Pushing against him is like trying to pry open an airlock door with her bare fingers. Not budging. In the wake of passion, unmitigated rage pours through her, hot and cleansing.

Her arm swings back and she means to slap him with the full force of it, but he is ready and snatches her fist, using her momentum to pull her against him.

A tear of frustration slides down her cheek before she can stop it.

“Martial law? How could you? Do you know what you’ve done?” she cries. 

He captures her other arm and hauls her onto her tiptoes, so he can stare directly into her eyes when he makes his final, devastating proclamation.

“I know _exactly_ what I’ve done. I’ve taken measures to guarantee what’s mine stays mine. This War is over. Skywalker’s Senate reign is at an end. It’s _over_.”

Shaking her head in disbelief, she finally understands the power he holds and how he’s wielded it so well. He only needed a few cruel strokes to eviscerate her and the Resistance.

The scent of him engulfs her and she finds her eyes unwillingly locked on his. He returns her gaze with a touch of arrogance.

His softly growled promise is a scratch under her skin, a splinter. Once the thought is planted there, she cannot eradicate it.

_No. I’m not done, yet. This isn’t over._

Abruptly exhausted, she moves her glance away, as if her eyes had chanced on his and she would look elsewhere, so thoroughly disgusted is she. But she cannot look away for long even as she whispers, “You shall never have my heart. Not now. Not after this.”

For the briefest moment, an otherworldly light flashes in his gaze before he takes a deep, shuddering breath and murmurs, “We’ll see.”

And not for the first time since they met, she feels a strong surge of disappointment when he releases her and abruptly departs, leaving only the scent of fury and desire to remind her how well and truly alone she is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a heck of a week for all of us Star Wars fans. 
> 
> Please believe I'm sending all the hugs and love to each and every one of you, and I hope you know how much your support and love means to me, too. 
> 
> XOXO, Amy B.


	9. Oath of Blood

# Chapter Nine – Oath of Blood

She slumps against the bolted door of her bedchamber, trembling. And not just from anger or fear.

Because when he kissed her, she became quite dizzy with a now familiar, compelling ache.

_It’s my heat. I’m sure it’s coming and when it gets here…_

When it gets here, she won’t be locked in a suppression chamber to ride out the storm. Not this time.

He’s gone back the way he came in, through the tunnel, and, as she suspected, not one of the soldiers standing guard attempted to stop him.

As valuable as she may be to his plans and as a figurehead in general, she must always remember her true solitude, her ultimate aloneness in this place. She must draw upon it and find a way to make it a strength, not a vulnerability, at least for the time being.

_You represent life to the galaxy, to all people, because of your blood and its legendary powers that brought humanity back from the brink of extinction._

_Even as you play your role and concede to him, you will cultivate the love of the people, so when we make our move, when we are ready, the people will side with you, with us. Do you understand?_

_We are bringing down a centuries-old system. It will be messy and require much from every single one of us. Sacrifices will be made, and it will hurt, and it will be ugly and hard. I have made many personal concessions already, as will you._

_But I remain steadfast in my beliefs. My losses only strengthen my convictions._

_The things we sacrifice are trifles compared to the prize of freedom for all, equality for even the humblest servant, to bring a new order of justice and peace to the galaxy._

Leia’s words ring hollow in the wake of her son's fervent, tumultuous visit.

Rey cannot think straight, not with the scent of Alpha lingering heavily in the air, not with this odd pull of the moon which seems to draw out her most untamed instincts.

She knows it will only grow worse, and she feels a sense of impending doom knowing the only one who will get her through her heat this time happens to be her greatest adversary.

Leia’s escape means nothing, now. Their hands are tied if they would prevent Kylo from turning the galaxy into, as he so eloquently put it, a bloody war zone.

Sleep is impossible, so she unbolts her bedchamber door and makes her way to her small library, searching for a distraction.

She finds a small Dejarik table and idly flips it on, scrolling through the brightly lit holo-menu of games currently in play.

She has been trained to expect the unexpected and to meditate and focus. But no amount of training can completely erase the deep muskiness of his overly appealing scent, nor can she quell her heart from pounding every time he stands so close or whispers in her ear or touches her.

Meditation requires two things she will never fully own in his presence: Concentration. And Clarity.

He disturbs her, evil despot or no.

From the moment they met, he’s used his touch and scent and overbearing persona to throw her off course. She recalls how quickly and easily he stripped her when finding her brooch.

 _Don’t lose this if you can help it_ , Leia had warned when she pinned the brooch to her shoulder _. It will be our only way to communicate until I can fall back to our secret base._

But Kylo Ren discovered it almost immediately.

He’s boxed her in so well, she cannot maneuver.

She needs to think.

She’s been planning for this her whole life, ever since her home system was wiped out by the First Order, under the control of a military council and the High Church at the time. Although it was before Kylo Ren’s ascension to the role of Supreme Leader, she was still left orphaned and alone until Leia found her and wisely hid her, to be raised in a strict Jedi sect in the middle of nowhere.

On Jakku, she learned the real history of her people and the true cost of authoritarian rule. 

_This will be a slow game of give and take. You might find yourself agreeing to support him one day so the next you can beg his indulgence and be granted a favor. But realize that everything you do, every inch of ground you concede is a permanent and irrecoverable expenditure of our most valuable asset: Time. We need as much as you can buy us._

Only now they have no time, and based on his most recent declarations, she has no leverage to gain anything more than a stinging reprimand from her soon-to-be husband. Certainly not any indulgences or favors.

_Make no mistake, this will wear you to the core. Every piece of yourself will be disbursed, and most of that to him. The physical part will be easiest, and it will take courage even then._

_It is the mental game that will challenge you. Imagine living with someone, learning everything about them for years, knowing things, finding empathy or worse, sympathy. You will do this, but in your heart, in the marrow of your bones, you must keep your hope, your knowing and following the true path._

_Hope is like the sun. If you only believe it when you can see it, you’ll never make it through the night._

_It must live in you, hidden, until the time is right._

She flicks through the Dejarik menu again, until a familiar set of names startles her.

**Luke Skywalker, Jedi Master vs. Ben Solo, Padawan, Lvl. Four (game in progress)**

An unfinished game between Luke and his nephew, Kylo Ren. Formerly known as Ben Solo.

_Dejarik. Hmm. Now this could be something._

Rey analyses the board and sees Luke left off on a _Thieves’ Blunder_ , a classic move meant to disarm his opponent by the simple expedient of hiding his best pieces in plain sight, making them inaccessible to the other player. Although difficult for the game to proceed, Rey can see Ben Solo’s pieces are set to attempt a _Smuggler’s Run_ , a good move against the _Blunder_ , though fraught with peril if executed incorrectly.

However, it looks as if Ben Solo had his uncle pinned down quite well before they’d abandoned the game.

_Interesting. I wonder…_

Eventually, she dozes into a fitful sleep on the small chaise in her library, her mind suddenly occupied with new insight and the seeds of a plan.

* * *

_Get this done before the entire city goes into rut,_ Kylo thinks resentfully, only listening with half an ear as the High Priest performs his wedding rites.

He gives his bride a sidelong glance, knowing Rey has never been exposed to anything like this. She looks overheated, and he feels an unwelcome, momentary pang of sympathy.

_She really doesn’t want to be here, and I can’t say I entirely blame her._

Coruscant and the High Church reek under its citizens’ odorous, pheromonal prelude to a Knotted Moon, as it does every sixty days or so when half the population, the Alphas and Omegas, prepare to succumb to nature and biology and withdraw from civilized society for a few days.

Though the church is packed with spectators, most are either unmated Alphas, Betas, or mated Alpha-Omega pairs who are not at risk of drawing unwanted attention. Unmated Omegas and young children will remain cloistered indoors until the lunar cycle ends and everyone’s hormones return to a more stable condition.

Meanwhile, everything from Market Level to the Scrum is virtually shut down, with the exception of the city’s brothels and taverns, which will reap a booming business under the double holiday of a Knotted Moon and the Supreme Leader’s nuptial celebrations.

But Rey looks to be anything but celebratory, and her scent grows wilder, headier by the minute, an enticing combination of rebellion and heat that Kylo plans to _thoroughly_ explore the very second they are alone.

He ignores the sting of wounded vanity from the previous evening when she threatened to run from him or just kill herself and remove herself from his equation altogether, and he wonders if she’s going to try anything today. She’s been compliant enough since their arrival at Church, and Phasma reported she gave no trouble or resistance when they made preparations this morning.

Despite her obviously reluctant attendance, Rey is quite pretty in her wedding gown, a deep, dark red, embellished with intricate beadwork and jewels. Her dress is cut low over the décolletage, exposing the delicate sweep of collarbone and softly rounded bosom that makes his mouth water.

Long, off-the-shoulder sleeves fall nearly to the ground amidst layers and layers of petticoats beneath a wide skirt, cut away to reveal a blood-red undergown. The lacings of her corset cinch her tightly, emphasizing her feminine shape, and he spends a few long minutes imagining his hands spanning her waist. 

Her hair is left loose and flowing, covering the back of her neck annoyingly well. Still diverted, Kylo temporarily ignores the High Priest’s ramblings in favor of indulging in the much more pleasurable fantasy of sweeping his bride's hair aside and sinking his teeth into her sweet smelling flesh.

He is dressed to match her, his jacket cut to show off his physique without appearing overly fussy, though it is dramatically wide of cuff and lapels and extravagantly beaded and embroidered with the black sun of his house’s sigil across the back. Beneath it, he wears pristine linen and a blood-red ruby the size of his thumb inset into a blindingly white cravat.

He’d just as soon be naked. Gods, his clothes are itching his skin and he wants nothing more than to strip down and-

“…Supreme Leader, Master of the House of Ren, Mighty Destroyer of the Skywalker name, Royal Prince of the House of Alderaan, Prince of the Blood of Naboo, Heir to the Homeworlds and the Outer Reaches, Lord and Master of the Higher Realms and of the Underworld, Diviner of Blood, Holy Defender of the High Church, Named Hades, God of the Dead on the day of his birth, will hereby take as his consort the Omega, Rey of Jakku, Princess of the Golden Blood, Persephone incarnate…”

This last is an eleventh-hour addition, an impulsive whim that makes her lovely bosom heave and her hazel eyes flash with indignation when she hears it.

 _Princess_ is a courtesy title with no sovereignty attached to it, but naming her Persephone will be sure to rile Kylo's mother.

And declaring Rey his _consort_ rather than wife is a deliberate insult, meant to simultaneously relegate her to the position of chattel while keeping her from his uncle’s clutches, though the titles of wife or consort will be interchangeable in the eyes of the common people and the High Court.

But, to his advantage, the title of consort will prevent her from being considered of royal blood until she bears him children, effectively eliminating any claim she might attempt on the Omicrons’ loyalties. Furthermore, under the highly unlikely chance another Golden Blood is discovered, Kylo could choose to take the new one to wife and still keep Rey, doubling his claim to the throne. 

She looks pale and she’s doing the same as everyone else, breathing through her mouth and keeping her lips slightly parted to avoid the worst of the stench. Kylo knows she is willing herself to stay upright amidst the cloying humidity and heavy tang of incense, which is burned constantly though it does little to cover the faint, foul odor of blood that lingers incessantly here, as a result of many, many ritual offerings.

Together, they listen to Snoke’s tedious recitations, and she makes no secret of her distaste for the proceedings, scowling with outright hostility.

_“…let their hearts find compassion for each other…”_

She huffs and Kylo’s upper lip stretches into a snarling grin.

Rallying before his eyes, she glares back with such hearty disrespect, he licks his chops and decides a bit of intimidation is in order.

He bares his teeth and snaps them crudely, making her shrink at the direct threat.

_Now I’m being vulgar in church, and it’s all your fault._

But she recovers all too quickly and her nostrils flare in warning, making his anticipation take on a new edge.

He will take her in hand and stamp out the rest of this animosity in but a few short minutes.

Snoke finally stops his endless speech and passes Kylo’s newly blessed dagger to him.

He snatches up Rey’s hand before she realizes his intent, and her face goes white as he carefully draws a thin line along the inside of her wrist, barely a scratch, but overpoweringly seductive nevertheless, when he catches a whiff of the potent scent.

Expertly, he draws a similar line on his own wrist beside the tiny cut she made yesterday, cocking an eyebrow at her dumbfounded expression.

She flinches when the High Priest takes their hands, finalizing the ceremony with a flourish.

Snoke’s fingers are cool and surprisingly strong, and although the High Priest appears quite ancient in his sparkling golden robes and high, pointed headdress, his grip is firm and confident as he slides their bleeding wrists together and murmurs a final benediction in his melodious, if not unctuous voice.

Searing warmth seethes from where they touch, causing Rey to stumble. She tries to jerk her arm away, looking panicked. As if she intends to flee altogether.

Unable to help himself, Kylo quietly reminds her, “If you run from me…if I ever find you again, I’ll make you wish you were dead. I swear it by the gods. I swear it by my blood. And yours.”

She gasps and Snoke chuckles, clearly comprehending the situation.

“You’re. Mine,” Kylo hisses with an ominous scowl, snatching her forearm with an iron grip. He can see her pulse fluttering at her throat and the bloom of color high on her cheekbones.

_Dammit, she’s not going to stay quiet._

She opens her mouth and tugs her arm with the obvious intent of returning his insult, and so he does the only thing he can think of to shut her up.

Jaw clenched, he grasps her by the waist and dips his head to the crook of her neck, breathing hotly over her gland before sucking hard and sending her into a dead faint.

Without further ado, he hooks an arm under her knees, catching her limp form against his chest to stride down the center aisle with single-minded purpose, barely registering the enthusiastic onlookers as they call out encouragement and well wishes.

“See you in a week, my lord!”

“Remember to breed her, not bleed her, milord!”

“Your teeth look very sharp today, Supreme Leader!”

“Never fear, Lord Ren, I shall remain sober as a Jedi so I can count her bites on First Morning!”

Kylo maintains a semi-serious mien, allowing them to believe his actions are merely the result of unbridled passion borne of a love match rather than what they really are: A means to quell her infernal tongue before she says something imprudent in front of the High Priest and the rest of the congregation.

He ignores the bawdy ripostes, knowing most of his guests are eager to escape the stench and relentless humidity and make their way back to his palace to settle in for several days of feasting and entertainment and dancing and fucking. All at his expense, of course.

Nobody bats an eye over the fact his bride is unconscious as he conveys her to the transport waiting outside, nor do any of the attendants demonstrate anything less than devoted obedience as he gruffly commands, “Hurry,” before settling himself into a seat with Rey draped across his lap.

The shuttle begins to move, and she stirs, startled when she takes in her surroundings and finds herself no longer in Church.

“Are you all right?” He glowers down at her, instantaneously infuriated and concerned.

He can see her desperate confusion and realizes his little stunt to shut her up has backfired spectacularly. Instead of the slow seduction he planned, he's thrown her promptly into heat and now she’s pulling him in with her.

_So much for making her beg._

He takes a deep, calming breath, unintentionally drawing in her hypnotic scent and compelling her to answer him. 

"Answer me."

“Yes,” she whispers. “But, I feel so strange. I-”

Tears glisten un-spilled on her lashes, and he grunts, “I know. It’s-”

He sighs and stares with longing at her mouth.

_Fuck. I want her, and I can’t wait another damned second…and we can’t fucking do this in the gods-be-damned shuttle._

“Hurry!” he barks to the driver. The shuttle accelerates, and the city passes in a blur of motion.

“I… _need_ …” she whispers, clutching feebly at his arms, eyes wide, pupils dilated. “Please…I don’t…know…”

Without preamble, he leans in and kisses her hungrily, all intents to punish her for helping his mother escape utterly forgotten in light of this more immediate emergency.

He’s well-aware of what entails a Jedi heat-fasting, and he knows she’s likely never gone this far without being restrained as her body shifts into the near-mindless oblivion of chemical and pheromonal cataclysm.

Unbidden, a surge of protectiveness engulfs him, and he submits to it, giving himself over to the Alpha part of his nature without hesitation.

“It’s all right, sweetheart…you’re…you’re just in heat…”

He bends to kiss her again, and her temperature is definitely rising. She’s burning alive in his arms and restraining himself from ravishing her here is a slow torture of the cruelest kind.

_Why in the name of Zeus’s bloody knot are we not there yet?_

Impatient, he cradles her against his chest and swoops in for another demanding assault on her sweetly scented mouth. She melts against him and pure fire licks up his spine, making his hands shake and his breath catch.

“We’ve arrived, Supreme Leader.” The driver's voice jars him from plundering further and he musters the last of his ability to _move_ , reminding himself if he does not carry her to his rooms, then someone else will have to do it.

And if anyone else touches her, they will surely die a slow and painful death.

He lifts her into his arms again and hurries them down the length of the small gallery. She whimpers helplessly, burying her face in his cravat and whining with incoherent need.

Logic tells him her scent is now so deliciously seductive, it cannot be helped if she draws attention; it will be noticeable to anyone in the vicinity. But his brain isn’t functioning with logic right now.

_She’s mine._

From the corner of his eye, he catches a servant regarding them with avid interest. He spits so ferociously, “Eyes forward, or I’ll have them gouged out,” the servant drops to his knees with a hasty, horrified apology. Kylo opens his mouth to order an Omicron to drag the offender to his dungeon when Rey distracts him.

“…hurts…” she moans, “…please…”

“Hang on, sweetheart, I’ve got you…we're almost there…”

The doors to his rooms sweep open and he rushes inside, his heart pounding to a near stop as he carries her straight to his bed and deposits her onto the covers.

Mitaka and Phasma await, heads bowed respectfully, and Kylo vaguely recalls commanding them to be at the ready after the ceremony to assist with their clothes.

Again, a vicious possessiveness surges through him and he snarls, “Get out.”

They leave without speaking, and Rey stares up at him with such innocent pleading he bites his lips together to refrain from moaning aloud.

Painstakingly, he shrugs out of his jacket, discarding it without a second thought, then seats himself in a chair by the hearth to tug off his boots. The look in her eyes begs him to _hurry_ , though common sense tells him he will need to proceed with a bit of finesse.

She has no idea just _exactly_ what they are rushing towards, even if he does. Blood thrums to his groin in pleasant, rapacious anticipation.

She’s looking around his room with curiosity and anxiety.

_She's frightened, doesn't understand what's happening._

He inserts a bite of authority into his tone. “ _Omega_. Heed me.”

Her eyes fix on his, near black in the soft afternoon light. Someone saw fit to draw the drapes closed and light a few candles, the only illumination in the room, and he is thankful for the serene ambiance in the face of the task before him.

His vision is starting to white out at the scent of her, and even he, a strong Alpha who can resist just about anything on sheer willpower alone, cannot help but shudder as he approaches the bed.

He pushes her gently back to lie on the mattress, observing with careful calculation the mindless need and panic swimming in her eyes.

_Calm her. Soothe her, first._

“I need you to tell me…” He pauses, unsure of how to ask. If she’s been truly heat-fasted, and if her pitiful lack of skill at kissing is any indication, she will be virtually innocent of most of what occurs during a mating. “When you were…in heat before, what…were you restrained?”

She nods, all previous modesty lost in fascination while she watches him slowly unbutton his shirt. He leaves it tucked into his trousers for now.

“Tell me. Tell me exactly what they did,” he coaxes.

Her reply is soft and hesitant. “I could always tell when it was starting, and I would go to the cloister and pray before submitting myself to the Caretakers.”

He catches a dainty foot from the edge of the bed and slips off her shoes, one after the other, rubbing his thumb along the stockinged arch of her foot.

_Fuck, this is going to be close._

“And, then?”

“They would bathe me and take me to a quiet part of the temple, and…” She pauses as a wave of heat rolls through her and he can fucking smell it, an overwhelming, temporary distraction. He fights it and caresses her ankle until her toes curl.

His voice grows velvety and cajoling, instinctively compelling her to relax. “Go on. Then what?”

“They would give me a dose of medicine to help with the pain and bind me and lock me in a suppression chamber until it was over.”

He nods again, knowing the heat itself was probably less uncomfortable than the aftermath if she was medicated. He knows unmated Omegas endure a period of severe bleeding and cramping after a dry heat.

“The bad part after…that won’t happen this time,” he says quietly. “Do you understand?”

She blinks up at him and her chest shudders.

He unclips the dagger sheathed at his side and tosses it onto the bed next to her, then loosens the fastenings of his trousers, though he leaves them on with his shirt. If she catches a glimpse of his raging arousal now, he has a feeling it will frighten the hell out of her, even if he cannot help the strain of rampant desire from tinting his scent or voice.

“Do you know…have you been told what to expect during a mating?”

“I think so,” she breathes tearfully. “Please help me…it’s…this isn’t like before…I think something’s wrong with me.”

“I know, sweetheart. It’s because the medicine they gave you before most likely sedated you a bit, too. Nothing’s wrong. It’s okay.”

He assumed someone would have explained the facts of life to her in preparation for her wedding to his uncle, but her utter lack of knowledge is making him question just how much was explained, if anything. Inwardly, he curses his mother and the Caretakers and the entire damned Jedi sect for keeping her in ignorance, even as a renewed covetousness fills him at the idea of her being…all his.

“I’ve just never been…touched before,” she tells him, looking somewhat terrified.

“Darling girl, you were _made_ to be touched. By me,” he assures her with total confidence.

He takes her wrist in hand, still smeared with their blood, and kisses her there, tracing the injury with his tongue and cleaning away the mess until she sobs brokenly, “…oh…gods…oh!”

“You see?” he murmurs gently.

Without hesitation, he pushes his hands under her voluminous skirts to peel her stockings down her legs, marveling at the smooth warmth before zeroing into the very core of her.

_Untouched._

She doesn’t resist, and so he sweeps a gentle finger against her delicate flesh, so slick and impossibly hot. They groan together, and he strokes her again, slowly, tenderly.

“Made for this…for me…”

He pushes more firmly, holding back by the thinnest thread only because he knows it might be painful, her first time, and at this moment, he would rather die a thousand brutal deaths than hurt her.

“This is mine.”

Her eyes roll back and she arches her hips as he presses further inside.

“Oh, gods, you are… _exquisite_ …” he croons, unable to focus on anything but the tight, wet pressure around his finger as he advances.

… _more_ …

He adds a second finger, and she writhes against him.

_Good…mine…_

He can read her every move, every hitch in her breath, the longing in her eyes, the feral, soft surrender.

“You need to trust me, sweetheart. I promise I’ll make it all better.” He’s salivating, having trouble forming words around the punishing, frantic want flooding his gut.

Her eyes blaze into his, smoldering with touches of fear and doubt but mostly a heated longing that makes his blood pound.

And he feels the godlike power of ownership, absolute and perfect, as he climbs onto the bed, bending her thigh up and pushing her skirts aside, dipping his head to slide his tongue against hers, mimicking the soft touches of his fingers.

She whimpers when he makes contact with her maidenhead, and he growls, “This is mine, yes?”

She nods helplessly and burning greed claws through his chest. “Say it.”

“…yes…yours...”

He presses in more firmly, noting with abstract pleasure how willingly she opens for him, the way she returns his kiss stroke for stroke, even as he encroaches and slips a thumb over the sensitive nub at the apex of her sex, swallowing her cries of discomfort, taking what is his, pushing through until she jolts against him and squeals in pain when he finally breaks the delicate barrier.

Kissing away the salty wetness on her cheeks and temples, he murmurs wordless apologies and reassurance even as he sinks further in, lost in her, curving his fingers up and stroking gently but insistently, telling her without words how she belongs to him now.

_You’re mine._

“It won’t hurt again,” he vows hoarsely.

Her fingers dig into his arms, and he pulls his hand back, bracing himself at her side so he doesn’t crush her, her body heat rolling into him as he holds her gaze and sucks his fingers into his mouth with a lazy, deliberate hum.

The heady taste makes him shiver. Her eyes are glued to his, mouth agape, her attention riveted on his every move.

“Please,” she implores. “Alpha, please, help me…”

_Take care of her...she needs..._

Finally, _finally_ , he allows himself to sink into molten, decadent lust. Suddenly, he grasps the top of her bodice, ripping the material down to the corset cinching her in, revealing the tempting mounds of her breasts.

He dips his head to suck and lave at a peaked nipple and she squirms and arcs beneath him, eagerly, encouraging him to _do it_ already, to bite her, devour her, and he _will_ , soon…

It almost kills him to wait, but he wants everything. And there’s more.

He finds his dagger and straddles her legs, cutting away the cords of her corset. Mindlessly, she pushes her hands into his open shirt and all of a sudden they’re clawing at each other’s clothes, desperate to get them off. He manages to slice the rest of her dress away and hurls his dagger into the wall, in too much of a hurry to re-sheath it.

He crawls down to hover over her, stroking the silky softness of her thighs until they fall open, and he sets his mouth between her legs. He kisses her there until she screams, raw and urgent, a gush of slick coating his tongue.

“Gods, you taste…”

He sinks his teeth high into her inner thigh, breaking the skin, and she shrieks with unrestrained abandon as he licks a hot stripe over the wound, knowing the mild venom in his saliva will numb any pain.

His pulse takes on a slow, sultry cadence, heavy and dark and time slows to a standstill. His throat is constricting, his voice thick with need.

“ _…_ so sweet _…_ _divine_ …now, come…show me…”

He laps away the last remnants of her virgin’s blood, sucking at the swollen bundle of nerves and watching greedily until she orgasms, falling apart so prettily he grunts and renews his efforts, not stopping until she’s squirming against his mouth and fisting her hands into the bedding and he’s sure she’s finished.

_…good…good little Omega…_

She weeps and stares in weak disbelief and he strips his clothes and crawls on top of her, shackling her fists in his grasp. He hovers and gives her a moment to adjust. But he cannot help rolling his hips against her, groaning at the sensation of her satiny skin sliding against his hair-roughened body, a delightful contrast of smooth and supple against his hard and angular. 

At the sight of his nakedness, her face flames red and she closes her eyes. He gently grasps her chin and compels her to look at him, to see. Where he is built to pillage and take, she is soft and gently curved, made to give way, to yield.

Her eyes snap open and lock on his and they’re in this together now, from this point forward, there’s no turning back.

“Don’t be afraid,” he says, “I feel it, too.”

“…all right…I’ll try…” she whispers so sincerely, something terribly close to light creeps into his heart.

“Brave girl.”

A smile teases at his lips and she gasps when he nudges against her soft flesh, taking her in a few wary thrusts, driving inside until he’s surrounded by her silky wet heat.

Her thighs quiver at the intrusion, and he forces himself to hold still, waiting for her expression to change from pleasure-pain to wanton desire before he unleashes the full force of his unrepentant hunger.

He slides in more firmly and they cry out together. He bends to her neck, sucking a bruise into the sweet skin over her scent gland, coating his tongue with the taste of her, abandoning all restraint as he surges inside again and again.

“You’re mine. You see?”

“Oh… _gods_ …”

“This is what you needed, isn’t it, little one?”

He gives her a heavy pulse of his hips, shifting her for a better angle until the intoxicating scent of feminine arousal renders him powerless to do anything but take more.

Her head thrashes back and forth and she cries out when her next orgasm hits her and he’s fucking drunk on it, on the shockwaves of pleasure as she twists beneath him in gorgeous surrender.

Her body flutters around him and he chokes out wordless encouragement, clutching his last shreds of sanity.

_…can’t knot her like this…wait…_

“… _more_ …” she moans, arching her spine, and he knows exactly what she needs.

They’re working up a sweat and he kisses her with an edge of violence as their breathing grows rough.

He pulls out and flips her with a savage growl, spreading the lips of her sex and pushing inside so relentlessly she falls forward and screeches until his ears ring with the glorious noise.

Sweeping her hair to the side, he wraps a fistful around his hand and pins her head into the pillows.

“This is mine,” he pants, swiping his tongue over her mating gland. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes!”

He settles atop her, sliding his sweaty chest against her back, uncaring if he crushes her, hammering his pelvis against her, fucking into her hot, tight sheath, as the perfect round swells of her derriere cushion every blow. His eyes roll back and a line of drool slips from his open mouth. A wild shudder wracks them both and he knows he’s close.

Fuck, she’s close, too, and nearly falling apart beneath his furious onslaught, but she’s fighting it, moaning and wailing and clutching the pillows.

“Let go, sweetheart, _fuck_ , give it, give it to me,” he groans, slipping a hand around to rub between her legs until she goes boneless. “…so fucking...good…now… _come_ …”

His teeth sink in, and he loses all sense of time as their bodies lock together, tensing and holding for an exquisite eternity as waves of monumental ecstasy rip through him.

He can feel it, the moment she unravels beneath his pounding force, slick gushing forth, her body flexing hard around him until she finally falls limp, locked in place, shaken and slippery and sobbing.

His fingers weave over hers, trapping her hands as his knot swells and he spurts endlessly into her perfect clutching heat, slamming his face into the crook of her neck and shouting raggedly against the damp flesh as wicked bliss uncoils up and down his spine.

And he becomes acutely aware of everything about her, every piece.

For one blinding instant, he knows her gentle beauty could be his ruin, that she could end him with a look, bring him to his knees with a touch, if only that is what she desires.

In his heart, at this moment, he would do anything, _anything_ she asks.

Trembling, he curves around her, rolling slightly to the side so he can lick ardently at the back of her neck where his teeth imprints seem to glow red and ooze blood.

She doesn’t speak, but he can _feel_ her, shivering with adrenaline and dopamine, as all the chemical elements between them fire and resettle into something new, a strange sensation in the aftermath of their mating bond. He knows she can feel him too.

And while he does his best to scrape together his tumbled thoughts in the sated bliss, he has a worrisome suspicion she can also sense his heartstrings loosening.

His bad mood from the prior days has evaporated, and he wonders how much of it can be attributed to the building tension of sexual frustration mixed with extreme exhaustion and annoyance.

Perhaps he overreacted a bit when he visited her last night.

 _Perhaps it is not her heart I should be so worried about_ , he thinks wryly, pulling her close to kiss her and mutter hoarsely, “Good gods you are _magnificent_ …let’s do that again…”

But he breaks off at the sound of inconsolable tears.

_Oh, no…what is this?_

“Sweetheart. Gods, no, don’t cry, my love,” he whispers. “What’s wrong?”

She cries harder and sickening, gut-wrenching jealousy spills into him. Perhaps she truly _did_ mean her vows to his uncle, as she said.

“Rey?” he begs, “What’s is it? Is it…are you upset because you married me and not Luke?”

“Ugh!…no!” Her reply is muffled, but a relief, nonetheless.

Recklessly, he says, “I would grant you a boon, a wedding gift. Anything you wish that is mine to give, if only you but name the thing and cease your tears.”

She draws in a few shuddering breaths and murmurs a squeaky, “Really?”

“I swear it.”

A long silence punctuates his hasty regret.

She might ask for something impossible. Like for him to _not_ roast Luke Skywalker alive over an open spit the very next time they meet, or-

“…your name…” she mumbles.

“What about it?”

“You used to be called Ben. I would that you…let me call you by your given name. It…feels less lonely, somehow.”

“Ben Solo died long ago,” he tells her. But this isn’t true. For something rang deep in his heart when she said it just now.

He is taken aback but can find no reason why he shouldn’t allow it.

He sighs when she remains silent. She could have asked for much worse, he supposes.

“All right, sweetheart. If it will please you and make you smile, you can call me…Ben. But only when we’re alone, all right? I have a rather fearsome reputation to maintain.”

And when she giggles and snuggles back against him, his heart fills with gladness and he knows his troubles are finally at an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and I hope you enjoyed the smut, my darlings. 
> 
> Like good gravy, the plot is definitely getting thicker as we heat it and stir it, and I hope you find things are starting to get interesting.
> 
> I cannot tell you how my heart zings every time I see a comment. I am truly inspired by all of you and your sharing of this with me. 
> 
> Peace and love to every single one of you as we approach the New Year.
> 
> XOXO!


	10. To Name A Thing

# Chapter Ten – To Name A Thing

He croons and pets her hair and kisses the bite on the back of her neck for what seems like hours, and she quietly allows it, permitting him to believe her earlier tears had been simply an overwhelming reaction to the strangeness of so much physical contact after a lifetime of isolation and of finally breaking her heat after so many fasts.

His long nose prods delicately behind her ear, a question she can almost hear.

_Better now?_

Perhaps her crying was selfish, though it was not initially intended to inspire his indulgence, either. Although, in retrospect, Rey supposes she might have chosen a more advantageous favor since he offered so generously to give her anything she asked.

Perhaps she ought to have begged something along the lines of him not to murder his mother or uncle when next they meet.

She is not entirely sure why she asked to call him Ben, other than she meant it sincerely when she told him it feels less lonely.

She thinks on it while they lie knotted together, still atop her voluminous petticoats and wedding gown, now shredded and crushed beneath them. The beads and ruffles scratch her bare skin, and she wiggles, uncomfortable.

He seems to read her thoughts and carefully disengages from her, leaving her feeling disconcertingly empty. She moves to get up so she might wash away the sticky aftermath of sex.

“Shhh, stay there,” he says benignly, “I shall play your lady’s maid.”

He rolls her aside and tugs the gown from under her, tossing it to the floor before stalking into his washroom, supremely unselfconscious of his nudity. She cannot but help to admire the firm flex of musculature from his shoulders to his buttocks and a decidedly lewd blush heats her face as he glances back to catch her observing him with unabashed interest.

She waits until he is out of sight before propping herself onto an elbow and glancing around the shadowed interior of his room with curiosity. The room is oriented much like hers, though slightly bigger and darker. The patterns on the draperies and walls match those in her rooms but are done in deep reds and umbers and carmines set against a blue so dark as to appear almost black. His furniture is as heavily carved as hers is, though his is larger and more sturdily built to suit his frame.

Soon enough, he returns with a warm cloth and a basin of water and proceeds to cluck his tongue as he nonchalantly pushes her onto her back and, brow furrowed, mutters, “Lie still for me, darling girl, and let’s have a look.”

Too shocked at his subservience, not to mention the casual intimacy of his touch, she allows him to move her legs apart and lightly rub the warm cloth over her. When he’s finished, he presents a small jar with a flourish and a quirk of his lips, spreading a soothing unguent over the bite on her inner thigh.

“I fear I rather lost my head, earlier,” he tuts in apologetic tones, though he doesn’t look sorry at all dabbing away the excess ointment with his cloth.

He screws the lid back on the jar, leaving the bite on the back of her neck unanointed, and when she asks why, his eyes smolder with such dark promise, wisps of aching need curl inside her.

“Because. I intend to bite you there again later, my love. I care not to taste salve when I prefer the taste of _you_ , untainted.”

He pulls his plush bottom lip between his teeth, and she realizes he’s holding his desire in check for her sake.

They stare at each other in infinite silence until a discreet knock on the bedchamber door breaks the spell.

Still naked, he prowls to answer it with a mildly threatening murmur, “That better be something to eat.”

Mortified at the thought of someone entering the room, particularly since it reeks of sex and is scattered with the evidence of their hastily discarded clothing, Rey burrows into the covers, hiding behind the semi-pulled draperies around his bed while a small army of servants brings in several large trays of covered dishes, setting them on tables they’ve also brought with them.

She listens while Kylo asks after his wedding guests and after being assured the feast is proceeding with spectacular depravity, he hustles everyone out rather quickly.

As he fills a plate from the covered trays, a loud grumble emerges from her midsection and she realizes she’s famished.

He grins and remarks, “I ought to have the priests set the city’s bells to the demands of your stomach. Very consistent.”

“How did they know when to bring food?” she asks shyly, sitting up as he settles onto the bed.

In lieu of an immediate reply, he proceeds to feed her the most _delicious_ soft cheese, spread over wafer-thin slices of cured javelina and sprinkled with capers and a spicy mustard she cannot name.

He moves closer, wholly focused on ensuring she’s chewing and swallowing and putting away an impressive number of calories before he answers. “I assume they waited until my lady’s hollering ceased, then gave us a few extra minutes just to be safe.”

She gasps and her blush returns in full force, knowing he’s probably right. He laughs at her mild embarrassment and uses a small paring knife to remove the pit from a date before feeding her a bite of the sticky-sweet fruit.

If she thinks about it, she is certain half the palace probably _could_ hear her, though surprisingly, she doesn’t mind as much as she thought she would. If life at the court of Coruscant is anything as close to sinful as she’s been led to believe, her passionate moans will be the least bawdy thing to have occurred this day.

_We shall see if your definition of licentiousness amends itself after our mating, shall we not?_

“You said our guests would indulge in a debauch,” she asks around a bite of flaky pastry smothered in fresh butter, “but, what exactly does that mean?”

“If they are behaving at all in the tradition of the royal court, as I expect they are, then I assume they are currently feasting and fucking each other into mindless, orgiastic oblivion in the royal dining hall,” he replies matter-of-factly.

She bites her lips together to refrain from making a prim remark and he eyes her critically, reading her thoughts regardless.

“Gods, you are an ingenue.” But his quip holds no sting to it, and his eyes glitter with humor as he feeds her more javelina. He pops a hearty morsel into his own mouth with an elegant show of appetite and gives her a lovely smile that scrunches the corners of his eyes and sends deep, warm flutters of awareness into her.

He is not acting at all like a ruthless despot.

In fact, he’s so handsome and beautifully made she suddenly wants nothing more than to touch him, to test the gorgeously sculpted muscles of his arms and chest, to trace the intriguing trail of hair that leads from his navel to his groin. To kiss him again, and revel in the way he presses her into the mattress with such relentless abandon. To bask in his hoarse cries of passion when he loses himself.

“Eat,” he coaxes. “And then you shall rest awhile.”

She shakes her head in disagreement. She’s finished eating, and a stronger wave of heat catches low in her belly.

“I’m not hungry anymore,” she breathes. “I would have another turn at…mating. If you please.”

His jaw clenches and he replies with gentle restraint, “You ought to rest yourself a while longer, my love. I would not use you too harshly this first time and have you later accuse me of uncouthness.”

“No.” She pushes his proffered bite away and glares at him with a touch of indignation. “Now.”

His nostrils flare and his mouth quirks into half-grin. But his voice carries a ringing threat. “You are in heat, my darling, but do not presume to present such unsolicitous commands to me. Or you may find me willing to forgo my good intentions and teach you a lesson in manners.”

His admonition riles her, and impulsively, she takes up the paring knife at the edge of their plate, pricking her finger until a drop of red wells at the tip. She knows damned well her blood is virtually irresistible to an Alpha, _especially_ as she is now.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice thick, his amber-gold eyes flashing with confused and unwilling fascination.

She smooths her bleeding fingertip over his bottom lip, and he growls, a savage, animal sound.

“I would have another turn at mating, my lord,” she insists breathlessly. “Right. _Now_.”

Her voice drips with quiet authority, and not for the first time Kylo understands how this girl could be his ruin.

Unable to help himself, he roughly snatches her hand and sucks the bloody digit into his mouth.

Annoyed and perplexed at how easily she’s bewitched him, he pushes their nearly empty plate from the bed with a crash.

A mutual wildness flares to life through their newly forged bond and the heady scent of her blood filling the air. But he senses a vague deception, too.

His pulse pounds at her sudden boldness and an indistinct suspicion sneaks into his haze of excitement.

He reminds himself she’s done this sort of thing before and recently, enchanting an Alpha to get her way. On his ship, when she sent that message to the Resistance. And who knows how many countless times before then?

He briefly wonders how naive she really is. The troubling thought lodges in his mind and he cannot totally eradicate it. 

No innocent would do what she just did. Would she?

“You think to use blood magic to bend me to your will?” he accuses with soft menace.

“What?” Something flickers behind her eyes before it disappears so quickly, he is sure he imagined it. "No! I just wanted-"

She looks up at him with helpless desire, and it soothes him.

_She cannot possibly know what she’s doing._

She is simply under the influence of her heat and has no idea how wholly arousing she is, tousled and wide-eyed and urgent for him to fuck her again. 

Surely, she's only trying to lure him into it, knowing instinctively the taste of her blood will inflame him into action.

Utterly besotted, desire blazes inside him. Intentional or not, blood magic carries its own temptations and he suddenly finds himself filled with a dark thirst.

“Sweet, foolish girl,” he purrs dangerously, “I ought to show you how it’s done and enslave you to me for all eternity.”

Mesmerized by the vague alarm clearly visible in her eyes, he reaches above her head and abruptly jerks his dagger from where it is embedded in the wall, making no effort to withhold the rolling waves of ravenous hunger from pouring off his skin.

He shoves her onto her back and straddles her, sweeping her silky hair from her face.

“I was sanctified as a diviner of blood by the High Priest himself,” he rumbles, gripping her chin with barely restrained aggression, pressing his body against hers, definitely growing warmer. “Did you not know?” he whispers with mock disbelief.

His tongue slides lazily over the succulent wetness still on his lips and her eyes grow wider yet, as she understands the extent of what she’s done, sees the beast she’s stirred.

“I didn’t mean-”

“Didn’t you?”

He surges in for a rapacious kiss. Only when she’s gasping does he pull back and brush the tip of his blade over her throat, not drawing blood but pressing hard enough to send a few shudders through her.

_Oh, how I’m going to make you scream for me, little one._

He angles his mouth to kiss her more deeply before working his way down her jaw and neck with teasing, sucking pecks. Lightly, he nibbles at her collarbone, impatiently giving her a bare moment to collect herself, waiting for her indication she is ready to proceed by how she grips his hair and eagerly pulls his mouth back to hers.

He runs a hand over her breasts, yanking at the sheets between them and flipping his hold on his dagger to wave it before her eyes.

“You just remember who started this,” he hisses, dipping his head to her chest.

“My lord, I-”

“I thought you wished to call me by my given name, _my lady_ , and yet we’ve reverted to such formal means of address?” 

He finds a nipple and suckles until she groans.

She whimpers again and he senses a renewed touch of fear. Perhaps it might be bad manners for him to pull a dagger on his practically-a-virgin wife in their wedding bed.

But he rather likes her this way, breathless and wary of his every move. 

“You wanted my name. I would hear you shout it.”

Her breath comes out on a shaky moan when he chooses his mark and strokes her there with a curved finger.

“Go on. Shout my name.”

She shakes her head _no_. Stubborn. She must sense she’s too far gone into heat, and he has no qualms over using it to further bind her to him.

With an impassive calm that hides the smoldering coals of raw _want_ , he flicks his blade above the cut he made yesterday.

“I’ll show you how it’s done,” he vows again, his only wish to make her as perilously out of control as he feels.

He rolls the pebbled tip of her breast between thumb and forefinger before moving to suck on it until his cheeks hollow, alternating his attentions between her nipple and the fresh wound until she squeals and kicks at the sheets entrapping her legs, arching her spine to meet him.

Viciously, he jabs his blade into the headboard above them. She draws in a frightened breath, squeezing her eyes closed when she senses his escalating powers of compulsion.

“Open your eyes,” he cajoles, sliding a palm down the front of her to cup between her legs. He’s salivating again at the silky wet heat he finds, slippery and soft and all his for the taking, if she would but _look_ at him.

She doesn’t, but her disobedience does not make him angry. Instead, a thrill of challenge races through him.

_Oh, no. I need you screaming and begging, sweet girl. This only works if you’re looking at me._

He leans close and breathes in her ear, “You should not have started a game you never intended to finish, Omega. You have _no_ idea the things I can do.”

But, she’s resisting, and this won’t do at all. He grasps her hair in one fist and tugs, demanding her attention.

 _Fuck, she’s strong, even in the thralls of heat. I will break her of this, too,_ he decides.

“You like it, don’t you?” he pants, lapping again at the wound on her breast. “Letting me sip your sweet, lovely blood?”

Languidly, he flicks his tongue over her throat, acutely conscious of her rapidly beating pulse, so gorgeous he can practically hear it. “You’re no coward. Open your eyes.”

Her eyes flutter open, dilated until only a thin ring of hazel green surrounds each pupil.

_Better._

He pins her wrists to either side of her head, pulling her into his gaze, hypnotizing her now that he has her in his sights.

_All mine._

A line of scarlet drips onto the pillows, distracting him, and his eyes fall half-closed as he indulges in another forbidden taste, sucking so hard she quivers uncontrollably under his assault.

“Fuck… _fuck!_ You taste so…fucking delicious.”

He crosses her wrists and pins them over her head with one hand so he can use his other to tease the head of his erection between her legs.

“I would hear you beg me,” he commands, intending to punish her for provoking him so wantonly.

“…Alpha…please…”

_Good, sweet girl..._

“Say my name, sweetheart.”

“Ben,” she exhales. The sweet scent of her breath makes him dizzy.

"This is what you want?" He presses his dripping arousal against her, ruthlessly holding back until she writhes, begging with her body if not her words. “Tell me,” he insists, licking a hot stripe over the gland aside her neck. “Tell me how much you want me, and I’ll make you scream.”

“I do…I want…want you.” Her voice is shaking, her thighs trembling against his.

_Now, we’re getting there._

Watching her eyes, he pushes a finger inside her, and she cries out, “Ben!”

“Fuck, _yes_ , say it again just like that.”

“Ben, _please_ ,” she sobs, lifting her hips against him in search of penetration.

His name on her lips and the eager, hot press of her body makes him shudder with leashed violence. Her thighs fall open he rears back, holding her splayed so he can push inside. A raw groan rumbles out of him and he is instantly lost in the tight, slick grip of her.

She thrashes under him, eyes wild and pleading.

“You want to taste me, too, sweetheart?” he rasps, rolling his hips until she whimpers his name. "Here."

He bends close so she can scrape her teeth over the scent gland at his neck and luscious tendrils of ecstasy weave from his groin to his fingertips when she licks him there.

“Say my name.” He thrusts and she squeals, raking her fingernails down his chest.

“Ben.”

"It sounds so sweet from your pretty little mouth. Say it again."

" _…_ Ben _…_ "

He rewards her with a series of punishing thrusts that render them both breathless until he feels an answering flutter inside her.

_Fuck, she’s going to come already._

"You like it hard like this?" he asks, fucking her brutally enough to jar her head back and make her breasts bounce. 

" _…_ yes _…_ " she gasps.

"Tell me who owns you." 

" _…_ you do!" she whimpers, her eyes glazing wildly.

" _…_ and who am I?" he prompts.

She screams his name and he sinks into madness, a blade of pleasure twisting into the base of his spine.

“Who’s making you come? Right now?” 

She chants his name and curves her body around his, falling apart under the steady pumping of his hips. She screams when he pulls out and flips her onto all fours and screams again when he mounts her and slams in from behind.

“ _Good_ little Omega."

Lightning rips through him on a savage gust, the sound of her wild cries ringing in his ears. He snags a fistful of hair and jerks her head into position before he lets go on a strangled groan.

"Now…say my name. One more time.”

She feels his hand flex in her hair and his teeth sink in just as she convulses around him. 

The heat lingers interminably, incredible, stunning her, every nerve ending in her body sensitized to his.

“We’re not done, yet,” he warns, rolling to the side so they might lie intertwined more comfortably. Softly, he kisses the top of her head and their breathing slows.

She senses this is the eye of the storm.

One hand still grips her hair, holding her immobile – it doesn’t _hurt,_ but it tells her exactly who is in charge. His other hand roams freely over her ribs and waist and backside and thigh as if he really does own her, just as he claimed, the authority of his touch clearly indicating he can do whatever he wants and there will be no stopping him.

She doesn't mind.

His sweat-slicked chest slides against her back and the rough hair on his legs rubs tantalizingly against her smooth skin.

She wants to explore and revel in the contrasts between them. He’s so different from her, and she is too enthralled to be shy. But when she reaches back to touch him, he simply catches her hand in his and tightens his arms around her.

He nuzzles and sniffs the scent gland on her neck and she shivers when he licks her there, groaning softly as she feels another gush of sticky wetness between her legs.

“Gods, I’ve never been in rut like this before,” he grunts, pulsing his hips against her until she whines. His hand snakes around to her front, pressing low on her abdomen and she clenches around him.

“…you _like_ this, me breeding you…”

His hot words make her clench again, and her head falls back as she drifts into heated darkness.

She groans, “Ben, more. More. Yes. Yes. _Please_ …”

“You…lusty…little…witch…” he chokes, each word punctuated by a fierce thrust and a shallow twist of his hips.

This is torment. Bliss. Wildfire.

Her cries make him feral, and he slips a finger between her legs to rub over her sensitive flesh until her body crawls with burning pleasure. He rolls her forward, so he can lever against her, moving her up and down with such explicit intent, her toes curl.

His hips pull back, but he can’t disengage her from his knot, so he settles into a rough, jarring bounce. She is lost, out of her mind, obsessed. Never has she experienced this kind of insidious driving need, relentless and all-consuming. If he stops, she will die.

“…fuck, I just want to break you in half,” he tells her on a guttural moan, spreading her thighs with a heavy roll of his hips before snapping his pelvis hard against her, though he’s so tightly wedged inside, she’s sure he can’t go further.

The decadent pressure of what he’s doing makes her grasp frantically at the bedding. She’s losing her sanity, she’s sure of it. He’s rubbing between her legs again, his breath rasping against her shoulder, his sweat and his delicious masculine scent sinking into her pores and she senses he wants her to _do_ something, something she isn’t sure she can–

…but she cannot finish the thought as something glorious overtakes her body.

_Alpha likes this…oh, yes…be good for him…let it…let him have it…_

Sharp teeth nip at her, hard hands holding her in place, locking them together until she can hear it. Him.

_You’re mine. I’m in your blood now, and you’re in mine. And I’m never letting you go._

He is suddenly everywhere at once, taking her over with inexorable finality.

_My Omega. I’m in you…and I’m not leaving…own you…every last drop…is mine._

She feels the most incredible friction and an overwhelming sense of being taken, possessed, owned.

_Say it. Tell me who you belong to._

“…Ben…”

She can feel every hot, pulsating inch of him piercing her, and she feels it again, something building, something beyond her comprehension, a foreboding, clutching heat.

“You’re close.” His voice is so low, she isn’t sure he actually says it aloud.

She wants to beg him more, faster, _something_ , but she has no control anymore.

“Let it come,” he grinds out, “…you’re mine now.”

So, she surrenders to the maddening pleasure, his roar echoing in her ears, as she screams the only word she knows.

_Tell me. Who do you belong to?_

_Ben_.

He bit her again, ferociously, and she cried again after, in no small measure from the pain, though this time he does not offer any consolation other than to gently lick at her bites and wrap his arms around her.

And later, when he quietly asks her why the tears, she mutters a half-truth of homesickness and missing her maid, Rose, for this is partially the case.

But he does not offer her another favor, nor does she ask for one.

For she knows when she must make her move to destroy the First Order, she will also destroy _him_ , this mercurial, devastatingly handsome Alpha who just shook her down to the core of her being.

Just then, in those last moments, she glimpsed something beyond the mask of mocking, cruel, autocratic Supreme Leader. She saw a man, vulnerable and just as desperate to find belonging as she.

She hates herself even more, sensing his continued bewilderment over her incessant crying.

And, despite Leia’s insistence that he’s abandoned his upbringing, for a moment Rey can see the light in him, hidden beneath many layers of pain and loneliness.

Now Leia’s words make infinitely more sense.

“You’ll feel better soon, sweetheart,” he promises, and for the first time since they met, he sounds unsure of himself.

“I know,” she assures him. But her words are a lie. Because by the time she’s done with him, he will have nothing left, and how will it make her feel better?

Another tear slides down her cheek and he murmurs consolingly, pressing kisses into her neck and shoulder until she falls into a troubled sleep.

She wakes later and he is not with her. The curtains have been drawn around the bed, but quiet voices come from the doorway and she eavesdrops for scraps of conversation.

_A spy. You’re a spy and he is the enemy, Rey._

After a few minutes, the voices cease, and the curtain sweeps aside. He stands there wearing a robe and a smug grin on his face, a perfect gentleman, holding a plate of food with the obvious intent to feed her again.

“News?” she asks, knowing he is aware she was eavesdropping.

His smile slips into a solemn expression and he replies with guarded deliberation. “I’ve hired a bounty hunter to find my mother and bring her in alive. Last evening, in your rooms…I spoke in haste and it was ill-considered. I will not bring undue destruction to the galaxy, unless provoked.”

He’s watching her closely, so she nods.

She can already sense his sincerity through their bond, and she knows he means to do his best to please her.

 _Leia was wrong about him,_ she thinks.

But Rey is sure Leia was right about something.

This is going to be ugly and hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY ANGELS! I was going to wait, but nah, I think we really all just need some more smut right now, so here ya go. I smoked a bunch of weed when I wrote this, so I beg your forgiveness for any grammar and/or continuity errors. I'll probably come back in and edit things in a day or two. I just wanted to get this out here. This is going to be a long, long story at the rate I'm going, anyhow. Might as well have more smut, amirite?
> 
> Speaking of which, I just really am feeling bitey, and although I think common A/B/O trope says one bite to the mating gland does the trick, I am going to take some artistic liberties with this story and say WHY NOT MORE? Let's have a good couple of chomps in this one. Let's make that a thing. Yeah. It's chompin' time. 
> 
> I also know some of you are worried about the level of angst, especially after the prologue, and I will remind you that there will be some dark times ahead, BUT I can also assure you this story will have the highest levels of SATISFYING I can muster. I swear it on my Reylo-loving writer's heart I'll do my very best to make you happy or die trying.
> 
> I am totally DIGGING everyone's comments and reactions, so keep 'em coming. You all make me laugh and smile and clutch my hand over my heart and sigh "awww" and even cry, but only good tears, I promise. Thank you. I will start replying ASAP, but please know I read and love every single one of your comments. 
> 
> XOXO, and if we don't have an update before the New Year, I hope you all have a safe, exciting, relaxing one.


	11. Sacred and Profane

# Chapter Eleven – Sacred and Profane

Kylo lies in the starlight, idly stroking the silky curve of her hip as she sleeps at his side.

He knows he should also try to find some rest before the upcoming post-nuptial festivities, but he cannot.

This mating is not going at all how he thought it would. He feels too…vulnerable, out of control.

It’s disturbing.

His plan to take the last Golden Blood and build a royal dynasty proceeds apace, and yet he finds himself perturbed.

Possessing _her_ is of significant importance to the Ren Dynasty, particularly if he intends to finish what his grandfather started and unite the galaxy under a single rule. 

Though Vader’s reign was fraught with corruption, Kylo’s grandfather managed to build a powerful and unified government, bringing peace for a time and only failing because ultimately, he could not govern his own impulses with the same unforgiving brutality with which he ruled his subjects.

After his heinous order to destroy the Alderaan System as an act of revenge and his own children turned on him, war flared once again.

Shortly thereafter, Vader was brought down by his son, Luke Skywalker, and the Empire split into several factions. Using its own private army, the High Church established order before chaos could take root, holding the galaxy’s wealth and military resources in trust until a new Supreme Leader could be appointed.

Luke Skywalker might have stepped into the role, but he abjectly refused to participate in the rebuilding of a dictatorship he’d just overthrown.

So, the Church gained power, more martial than spiritual for a time, and the splintered Empire grew more fractured as each loosely formed coalition of systems scrambled for supremacy, though they fell to the First Order of the Church, eventually.

Meanwhile, Skywalker joined his twin sister, Leia Organa in a crusade to bolster the political influence of the Free Systems and prevent other systems from being absorbed by the First Order.

Newly married to a so-called war hero, Leia used her political connections to fight the inevitable. Though she quickly bore a son after her marriage, her attempts to galvanize free systems into rebellion against the First Order left little time for motherhood. After a stormy adolescence and constant shuffling between his mother’s and his uncle’s households, her own son turned from his childhood teachings and became an acolyte in the High Church.

Ben Solo might have learned the art of politics and strategy at his mother’s knee, but he had no love for his mother’s version of liberty, nor for his uncle’s starry-eyed idealism.

War had already simmered and flared for decades and the galaxy cried out for leadership and stability. Vader might have ruled benignly, prosperously even, had he only employed a more balanced approach. Benevolence and brutality can work well together. In the right hands.

People are meant to be ruled, not to rule themselves. Otherwise, anarchy reigns.

It came as no surprise when Ben Solo took this philosophy to heart and adopted the name Kylo Ren, declaring himself Supreme Leader with the High Church’s enthusiastic blessing. The First Order was becoming too corrupt, and when Ren vowed to establish a new order to the galaxy, most people were grateful. Even the High Priest Snoke was indispensably supportive. 

No one resisted. Except the New Republic. And Kylo’s family.

Publicly, Ren disowned them, naming the Skywalker line ended in him. He assumed power by virtue of his now-dead bloodline but declared he would build a new one, a greater royal line. A dynasty to outlast the ages.

And after nearly a decade of relatively peaceful rule, when he was ready to consider options for marriage, he heard rumors of the existence of a Golden Blood, hidden away in a remote system. To Ren, the idea seemed a gift from the gods, a sure sign his sovereignty was divinely ordained.

The Supreme Leader put out a summons, commanding the Golden Blood to come to him or make her presence known, but when she did not appear, he sent his Knights to seek out the likeliest candidates. Their reports came back inconclusive as they sought to confirm it was her and watched covertly from the shadows, not wanting to tip off the Skywalkers. But there were many decoys and she was well hidden.

It took nearly a year to locate and acquire _her_ , and then only in the nick of time, mere hours before she married Ren’s own uncle, Luke Skywalker, now in open revolt against him.

_I would make a gift of Skywalker’s head to my bride, if she were not so inclined to compassion._

Spirited and stubborn as hell, his bride is also gentle-hearted, putting the interests of others above her own, even revealing her identity to save an enemy soldier’s life. And Kylo can see it too, in her concern for the maid Rose.

While such weakness has been useful for him to exploit thus far, Hades is said to be a greedy god, and true to form, Kylo admits he would prefer his bride’s interest fixed upon him and him alone.

Rey has already assuaged the worst of his jealousy, but his heart sinks when he considers what might be done to mitigate her homesickness. He is positive he cannot endure another bout of post-coital tears.

It rather galls his masculine pride. Most especially because he’s having the most incredible sex of his life.

He meant it when he vowed to have _all_ of her, though he was a fool dancing on the edge of lunacy when he so ill-advisedly last spilled her blood in the heat of passion.

Her heat is nearly over, and with it his rut. There is no discernible reason for him to feel so disoriented, so _obsessed_.

It must be her golden blood, ensnaring his senses as legend proclaims it will do. He was playing with fire last time, and he knows blood magic and compulsion flow two ways.

He will be wise to remember it the next time he’s tempted to nick her pretty skin with his dagger.

Still, he knows it is in his best interest to inspire her regard, and he holds no delusions once her heat ends she will undoubtedly return to hating him, or mistrusting him at the very least.

Even worse, she clearly holds sympathetic leanings toward the Resistance, and given her demonstrated obstinance, Kylo knows her loyalties will not be easily swayed.

A lifetime of politics and leadership have taught Kylo loyalty is something won, not bought or taken, no matter how he wishes otherwise.

He will need to think of something to improve his situation with her, though he will not allow her to reunite with Rose just yet, fearing the two will be unable to help themselves from conspiring and bringing disruption into his household.

And he still has a bothersome feeling she is keeping something from him, in spite of her enthusiastic participation in their mating.

_None can claim her now. She belongs to me._

She’s been thoroughly marked, and he alternates between satisfaction and avarice. He did as promised and claimed her with meticulous diligence, despoiling her virtue beyond the point of return.

Somewhat guiltily, he peels back the sheet and gives her a thorough once-over, checking for signs of injury.

Along with the mating bites, a permanent sign of his claim, love bites along her neck and collarbone and bruises in the shape of his fingers scatter liberally over her arms and breasts and ribs and thighs.

And she has two small red cuts on her chest, plus the one on her wrist and finger.

_Those will need salving._

He feels no remorse for forcing her to acknowledge their mutual urges, even if a bit dark. They are mated now, and this is as it should be.

It would be wrong if they did not share some degree of animal passion for each other…but he curses when he notices the chafing on her thighs and so many other indications of rough handling, and he grimaces again, knowing any loss of control, no matter how incited, is strictly his fault.

_I almost fucking used blood magic on this innocent girl. I certainly deserve a reprimand and penance from the Church, at the very least._

Did he really _cut_ her? Mere minutes after promising he did not intend to use her harshly?

She will bear his children and be his mate until one of them dies, mother of princes and princesses, her body valued as a priceless vessel for this sole purpose, if nothing else.

Not to mention she is named a goddess – by his own demand – and thereby _sacred_.

He is uncomfortably reminded of his own parents, the only relationship he has for a basis of comparison. Though a vagabond and scoundrel and frequently absent, his father was always an absolute gentleman with his mother.

And though Kylo’s fury with his mother is justifiably warranted and he put his father to a much-deserved public execution, his gut clenches with shame when he looks upon Rey.

If he isn’t careful, he might really hurt her, damage her somehow, and this would be untenable. Profane.

He pulls the sheet over them both and drifts into an exhausted slumber with the best of intentions to make it up to her.

Just as soon as she’s out of heat.

Well before dawn lightens the sky, she stirs, her head resting on his arm as he spoons around her, careful to ensure she rests comfortably even if his arm is dead asleep.

She will be tender and aching for a week if he continues to lavish her with such indelicate attentions, and then he will be forced into abstinence out of chivalry, which won’t suit him at all, since he cannot fathom the idea of not having her every single night for the rest of his life.

She nuzzles at his wrist, and her light snuffles send a tickle of pleasure up his arm.

A soft whisper drifts across the moonlight on a wave of heat. “Ben?”

“Hmmm?”

“I…think I need you again.”

His hand snakes up her side to caress her breast with a cautious tenderness. Her skin is still flushed with the slight fever of heat, although he estimates she is likely through the worst of it.

The conflict between craving and sanity flares. He deliberates before answering, “You should rest, sweetheart. Go back to sleep.”

“You won’t hurt me,” she urges, pinpointing the reason for his hesitance. She finds his other hand and squeezes it. “Please…?”

She wiggles against his groin and tilts her hips in an age-old invitation that quickly unravels his half-hearted protestation. He groans, instantly aroused.

_…once more, then. But softly. I would not hurt you…_

Carefully, still on his side, he bends her leg, exposing her from behind. He presses against her feverish heat, which is suddenly beyond alluring to his burgeoning ardor.

“Like this,” he whispers into her hair with such reverence she shivers.

He holds her in place and pushes inside with gentle insistence. She is tight and slick, swollen from the previous days’ encounters. The slippery friction makes them gasp together and he runs an eager palm over the front of her, reveling in how exposed she is, in the thrill of absolute possession.

_Mine._

He listens to her breathing, the way her sighs escalate from whimpers to moans, adoring how her body clutches at his, soft and wet and snug. He basks in the luscious tang of sex clinging to the air and buries his nose in the side of her neck for unrestricted access to her scent.

_Witch. Seductress. If only you knew how readily I would worship you._

Content to rock his hips against hers for a time and relishing the leisurely pace, he lingers in a half-existence between worlds, where one is dark and moonlit and quiet and the other burns, crackling with the growing inferno of soaring need.

But, as desire inevitably blazes, she’s soon gasping, her fingernails digging into his arms, and even as he continues his unhurried pace, he senses her building urgency and redoubles his efforts to give her a slow, sweet climax.

Until she begs with faltering urgency, a desperate tremble in her voice, “…Alpha? Please…I want…to taste you _…"_

“We can’t, Rey…it’s not…fuck!”

He feels her sharp teeth on his wrist, and she bites down, but not hard enough, so he pumps his hips and grunts against her neck. In the shadowed moonbeams, momentary doubt flares again, that same odd _something_ he glimpsed before, more a feeling than anything.

Her teeth sink in harder, and he shifts before she draws blood and starts an unstoppable chain reaction that might culminate in him doing something truly unforgivable.

“Please…can't you just?”

His tightly leashed restraint slips through his fingers before he can grasp it.

She cannot know what she’s asking for. Can she?

_Ravage her._

He shakes the errant thought from his mind and drags his own teeth against her neck, tracing her rapid pulse until he breathes hotly in her ear.

“I said _no_.”

He flips her onto her stomach and lifts her hips, penetrating deep on a single, fierce stroke that makes her cry out.

Nipping her shoulders, he adjusts his weight, pinning her to the mattress until she stills.

“But, I want-”

“You’re asking me to use you beyond desecration, little one,” he pants, the air in his lungs burning with unchecked want, “Blood magic is not for the likes of you. You have no fucking clue what that looks like. And I…” He inhales a stuttering breath, making a last grasp at reason. “I cannot…but I’ll get us close and it will be enough. All right?”

“Yes,” she cries, flinging her head back, quivering with hunger, trapping him with her gaze.

_Something’s there…yours…take it._

He wonders if this position hurts her and gives her a few tentative thrusts before she squirms and demands, “More.”

“I thought I warned you not to presume to command me?”

He snags a handful of hair and shoves her face into the pillows.

“More… _now._ ”

“You’re not very good at listening,” he admonishes, pulling out and flipping her again.

He crawls to hover between her spread thighs and bends to taste her, familiar and sweet. She arches to meet him, chanting his name until he can’t think straight.

Rudely, he shoves his fingers inside and if her shrieking is from pleasure or pain, he neither knows nor cares.

“Fuck, you’re getting so slick for me…” Her hips lift in the cadence of his thrusting fingers and wicked lust pounds through his bloodstream. “You like this?” he croons, exhaling against the lips of her sex until she’s writhing against him, mindless with need.

She squeals, “… _yes_ …” and it fuels his arousal like nothing else.

“Gods, you taste so sweet.” He licks her inner thighs, bruised and chafed, reminding her how he’s already despoiled her soft, pure skin and surely this desecration is enough. With an obscene groan, he drags the tip of his tongue through her sweet, hot flesh, savoring her taste the way an addict enjoys spice, lapping every last drop until she’s sobbing, begging for more, crying for his knot.

His control snaps in one clean break, as he hauls her onto all fours and positions himself to plunder her until she cries for mercy.

Even in the dim moonlight, he can see _everything_ , how his thickly veined shaft drives into her soft pink flesh, how her perfect, round buttocks bounce against his punishing blows.

He fucks her hard until every thrust is met with a sobbing moan, slamming his pelvis against her until his vision blurs around the edges, gripping her hair and cranking her head back so she can meet his piercing stare.

“How’s that, princess?”

But her voice is shredded, gone, and her husky cries shoot daggers of lust into his gut. He releases her hair and wraps his arm around her waist, pulling her into a kneel so he can lick and bite the back of her neck.

She thrashes against him, and he isn’t sure if she’s trying to get closer or farther away. He slaps her ass hard, again and again, until the skin under his hand grows warm and she bucks her hips.

"Are you done so soon?"

_I don’t think so._

He hisses, “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

His hand slips around to pinch at her nipples and between her legs until she wails and buckles under him.

He does not stop, though surely he must be fucking her hard enough to bruise her insides. But he knows. She _wants_ this, this dark intimacy, this bestial communion. He can feel it humming between them, an electric current of energy, the room reeks of it.

She wants to lose herself in the black, swirling abyss.

_I can show you…take you there…stay with me…_

He flips her so quickly she loses her breath and he lifts her ankles to his shoulders and drives in again before she can catch it. She can’t scream, but every piece of her seizes around him with delicious tension and he cries out with her at the rabid luxury of it.

A thought slithers in and he isn’t sure which of them owns it.

_…mine now…no escape…can’t have all of me…_

“…oh, I’m going to breed you, Omega…but I want all of it, first,” he snarls. “Give it to me. _Now_.”

He is on the brink, the edge of sanity, his fingers biting into her as he intends to fuck her into madness.

Flinging his sweat-matted hair from his eyes, he growls, low and menacing, willing her to go first.

But she’s already gone, so he slants his hips to give her that friction she needs, rubbing his pubic bone against hers until the heat between them turns white-hot and a decadent surge of wetness soaks his arousal.

Her eyes go smoky and vague, and the mind-bending compression of her release grips him so _perfectly_ he hurls himself in with her, into that sweet darkness that wrenches a shout from the pit of his soul, as every thought but _her_ is ripped from his mind.

The sheets are a disaster. There is a rather conspicuous knife hole in the wallpaper above the bed and another in the headboard. Kylo’s boots and clothes have been flung haphazardly about the room. And her wedding dress and petticoats have been shredded and also thrown helter-skelter.

And at some point the night before, her chafed thighs started bleeding, adding to the rest of it.

She is sure everyone in the palace will be gossiping their heads off the instant they get a good look at, well, everything.

This time when the servants enter, Kylo remains abed with her, and she isn’t sure if this is more or less embarrassing than having him parade around in the nude.

He is his usual supercilious self, utterly unconcerned over the fact they have been _mating_. For days. A few times. 

Quite a few times.

She scrambles under the sheets, only to peer over the top when she smells food.

Kylo directs the proceedings from bed, instructing a servant to fill a plate for them. Another quietly and efficiently clears away their scattered clothing before moving a small table to their bedside and leaving food and a carafe with steam rising from it.

One sets a tray across Rey’s lap and they proceed to ignore her altogether as they bustle around the room, opening draperies and tidying before exiting with respectful bows.

Seeming to read her thoughts, as always, Kylo murmurs, “They are too well-trained to show reactions, no matter what evidence of depravity they find. Are you hungry, sweetheart? Coffee?”

“Mmm, yes please!” Coffee on Jakku is a luxury reserved only for sacred days or used in lieu of currency. She hasn’t had coffee for ages and ages, and she watches eagerly as Kylo adds a generous dollop of cream.

He takes a quick swig first, a gesture of respect, before passing the warm cup to her, his eyes sparkling with mischief when she groans aloud at her first sip. 

“If I had known such a simple thing would elicit such a sensual response, I might have plied you with coffee and reserved my strength these past few days,” he chuckles.

Smirking, he sets a plate with a flaky roll in clotted cream and sweet fruit on the tray over her lap and she falls upon her breakfast with an eager appetite, though she is acutely aware of his speculative observation.

His eyes darken as they flicker over her form, and she knows she looks a mess.

But he only mutters, “I’ll run us a bath. Stay in bed. Eat.”

She is too busy licking her fingers to argue as he climbs out of bed. She gulps the rest of her coffee and efficiently puts away the remainder of her breakfast, suddenly in a hurry.

A bath sounds _quite_ lovely, and for someone raised on a desert planet is an even rarer experience than coffee.

She jumps from bed on wobbly legs, wrapping the sheet around herself and following the sound of running water and the delicious scent of _him_ , only to find her gorgeous husband bent over the tub and giving her a dead-eye view of his flawless ass.

He glances over his shoulder and stretches out his hand. “Join me."

She doesn’t hesitate to drop her sheet.

His eyes linger on her breasts and belly and thighs, and she pauses at the furrowing of his brow.

“Gods, you’re covered in bruises. And blood,” he mutters, his scowl deepening. “The way I’ve marked you…it borders on scandalous. I would apologize, but I fear it would be disingenuous.”

Despite his smoldering perusal, he looks entirely too concerned and it does terrible things to her heart. Her enemy should not show such care for her, not when she intends to–

Suddenly dismayed, she cocks her eyebrow.

“Well, I feel much better than I normally would be after a heat…and I’ve marked you, too,” she replies, keeping her voice deceptively light. “Or did you not notice the scratches?”

“ _Touché_ ,” he smiles, with a rueful glance at his chest. "Perhaps we shall call it a draw."

Trying for sophisticated nonchalance, she casually steps past him and sinks into the hot water with a hiss of pleasure. The water is boiling hot and silky with the scented oils he’s added.

_Gods, I could live in this bath._

He motions her forward and scoots in behind her with his own soft gasp as the water surges higher, displaced by his large frame.

Pushing a leg to either side, he bends his knees to cage her in, then pulls her to lean against his chest for a few minutes before leisurely scooping water in his cupped palm and spilling it over her breasts and shoulders.

“Are you feeling much better, my darling?” he asks in low tones. She knows he’s referring to her earlier tears and probably also to the litany of marks and bites she’s accrued.

And although as promised, she is not cramping and bleeding like after previous heats, she isn’t sure she feels better at all.

Not in the cold light of day when she fully comprehends the monumental task before her.

She manages to whisper, “Yes, thank you,” while he takes a bar of soap and lathers it in his large hands.

Gently, he massages the soap over her back and arms and neck, murmuring soothingly over each bruise and bite. And this time when the tears slide silently down her cheeks, she tells herself they only fall because of the stinging pain in her flesh and not the deeper one in her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your continued love and support for this story gives me WINGS. Thank you and may your New Years be blessed with love and peace and beauty.


	12. The Returning

# Chapter Twelve - The Returning

**Two Years Later…on a remote planet, in the middle of nowhere –**

She trudges in her too-large boots behind him on the dark trail, careful not to trip on a stray twig or root as they make their way to his ship. The moonlight floats and fades between drifting clouds, obscuring and revealing the rustic trail they follow to the edge of the forest.

Her only hope is to have the dagger ready and wait until he removes his armor and drops his guard.

_You have to sleep sometime, husband._

Depending on which ship he brought, the return to Coruscant will take up to a week, which will give her plenty of time to devise an escape strategy.

Yes, if she can disable him, take him by surprise, perhaps–

“You wear battle armor,” she blurts out. “And you said ‘not much’ violence. What violence was there?”

He waits interminably before replying, “Several soldiers at the trading post attempted an ambush when we landed. My ship is unmarked, and they believed us an easy target. Never fear, we showed them otherwise.”

“You brought no servants? Only your _dogs_?” Rey will never refer to his Knights as anything less than the rabid curs they are, no matter how impolite it is for her to use the vile term.

“You may despise my Knights, but they will always place your safety above all else, even my own. And they are excellent hunters…I did not trust you to stay in one place for long. I assumed I would need their tracking skills if you intended to relocate to a new system once you were recovered enough to do so.”

That was her exact plan, actually. Damn him.

Her arms grow weary of carrying Hope in her basket, but she walks on, determined to hold onto her pride if nothing else.

When Kylo offers to carry her, she acidly declines.

But her long nightgown causes her to walk slowly, and the members of her uninvited entourage are forced to adjust their gaits to match hers.

 _I feel as if I’m walking to my gallows,_ she thinks morbidly. _Perhaps I am, though my demise will be slow and painful since he has not deigned to kill me outright._

They approach his ship and her heart sinks. It is too small to carry an escape pod and too large for her to easily pilot on her own.

And, even if she is somehow able to take him by surprise, there is no way she will be able to overpower all six of his Knights and steal the ship. Not with Hope.

The loading ramp is down, awaiting them, and she falters.

_Once I board this ship, there is no turning back._

One of the Knights takes her pause as belated resistance and reaches for her arm, but he pulls away when a vicious growl rumbles from Kylo’s chest. At the same time, she snarls, “Keep your filthy hands off me, you bloody fucking mongrel.”

Kylo mutters coolly, “I see your cursing has improved, princess. Though I'm not sure I approve such language around our daughter.”

Rey huffs as he waves her to precede him up the ramp. His invitation is a thinly concealed threat, but he does not touch her.

This ship is smaller than his flagship and barely spacious enough to accommodate the group, though none too comfortably. His Knights discuss their plan to sleep in shifts in the bunks at the stern while they take turns piloting back to Coruscant. Her heart drops again, knowing this will make it doubly hard for her to escape.

Kylo directs her to the bow, and she sweeps past with as much poise as can be assembled under the increasingly gloomy circumstances.

The Captain’s quarters are nothing fancy, just a small leeward chamber behind the bridge containing a cot, a chair, some built-in drawers for storage, and a little shelf that can be used as a table or folded into the wall to make a bit more space. A door panel at the foot of the cot reveals a tiny private washroom, and she supposes she should be thankful she will only share the facilities with Kylo and not the other passengers.

“I apologize for the cramped accommodations, princess, but this is my fastest, most discreet ship. Most of Coruscant is unaware either of us ever left the city.”

He must have done some incredible public relations work to keep her disappearance a secret for so long.

Hope begins to stir awake and Rey sets her basket on the cot, close to the wall so she can wedge herself onto the cot beside it. Kylo looms as she tiredly lifts the baby to her shoulder. Carrying Hope’s basket the entire distance has made her grumpy and weary and sweaty. And hungry.

Under her husband's watchful eye, she changes the baby’s linens and swaddles her again. Kylo surprises her and removes the soiled diaper to the washroom without prompting. She hears running water before he returns to hover again like a specter. A familiar sense of claustrophobia sweeps in and the small space is quickly overwhelmed by his scent and menacing presence.

The ship jolts and shudders when they exit the atmosphere of the Takodana system. She becomes acutely conscious of the dagger in its sheath, hastily and surreptitiously tucked under the padding of Hope’s sleep basket.

After loosening his armor, Kylo seats himself in the cabin's only chair, dwarfing it with his large frame. He obviously intends to stay put, damn him, and Rey knows she will only inspire further suspicion if she invites him to leave her the hell alone.

He watches her with inscrutable solemnity, and she finds herself defensive.

“You said if I ever ran, you would make me wish I was dead. I can assure you, if not for Hope needing me, I already would be.”

“Well,” he replies enigmatically, “then I consider myself fortunate our daughter arrived in time to mitigate your untimely demise.”

“How did you find us?” she asks instead of continuing _that_ line of discussion.

His mouth quirks into a half-smile, but humorless. 

“I had someone watching the birth scan logs. With our blood types, we knew the child would be either O-negative or unscannable if she turned out to be Rh-null like you. We looked for infants born to single mothers with no record of prenatal care and new to an area, isolated systems, in particular, and when Kalonia turned up missing, it was easy enough to learn her history, known systems where she’d traveled or worked.”

 _We_. His gods-be-damned Knights.

Inwardly, she curses them yet again. And Kalonia for scanning the baby, although it would have caused a massive disruption if she would have tried boarding a transport with an unscanned newborn. She supposes the point is moot since this is no longer an option and she's here now.

But during her pregnancy, she took specific care to avoid scans, not permitting any tests, refusing even a drop of bloodwork despite Kalonia’s urging to check for birth defects or prenatal issues. Her entire pregnancy was off the record. She didn’t even know the sex of the baby ahead of time.

_Had I known avoiding a scan would be such a critical variable in him finding us, I never would have made it so easy._

“What did you do to Kalonia?” she asks bitterly. It has not escaped her attention Kalonia never reappeared before their unceremonious departure from the hut.

“Kalonia, by my grace, has been granted a pardon for her crimes, so long as she agrees to live out the duration of her life in quiet isolation. The only reason she still lives, frankly, is because of her loyalty in an impossible situation, a situation _you_ placed her in. Rather unfairly, by her account.”

Rey shifts uncomfortably, knowing his cold assessment is accurate.

He goes on. “Despite your foolish attempt to hide from me, Kalonia perceived she would be more useful in keeping you and the child safe and alive. She reported to me you only gave her seconds to decide and had no means of outward communication thereafter. She said she chose to go with you for the sake of our child, though she claimed she ultimately hoped I would find you both.”

Rey whispers, “She does not lie. I gave her no choice.” A tear of gratitude slips down her cheek before she can stop it. “If not for Kalonia, I would not be here, nor Hope.”

“And so Kalonia has earned her pardon,” Kylo muses darkly. “Unlike you.”

“My pardon?” she asks rather squeakily. She deserves a trial at the least and execution, although her status as a Golden Blood may exempt her from the worst of it. 

“A double-edged blade is it not?” he quips, mercurial as ever. “I cannot put you to death, much-deserved though it may be. You are too highly regarded with the nobility and too much revered as a religious figure in the eyes of the common people. Never let it be said I would force them to choose between their misplaced love for you or their loyalties to me and so tear apart my house with mine own two hands.”

Rey’s breathing becomes rapid and shaky.

“And while I find myself unable to trust you to behave according to your station and show, if not acceptance of your position, then at least a sort of unity between us, I also find I need you to play the role protocol demands. Therefore, we shall be crowned together, and you shall receive a collar, to be worn as a symbol of our accord. I will not allow us to divide the realms with our quarrel.”

“Must I wear a collar, my lord? I would find it _most_ humiliating,” she pleads, her voice quivering with unchecked and unwelcome emotion. More tears dot her eyelashes though they do not spill over.

But he shows no sign of sympathy and merely lifts his chin, replying without remorse, “You ought to have considered the consequences of your actions well before all this. I have granted you a lifetime’s worth of leniency, despite my own-” he pauses and sighs, “Despite my own coarse behavior during our last…time…together.”

He drifts off significantly, glancing at Hope. Rey almost glimpses regret before his gaze returns to her and hardens. “I cannot trust you. Though you have provided my heir, I find myself unwilling to let the matter of your betrayal go so easily. I am still debating your fate, princess, but rest assured I will conceive a suitably appropriate penalty for your crimes.”

Her heart sinks, knowing he is within his rights to punish her, though she is relieved he does not intend to kill her outright. Still, he will crush her spirit if he cannot cage it, if what he hints at is true. 

But Kalonia is safe, and Rey takes small comfort in this, at least.

“Did Kalonia say anything else? Any parting words?”

He bites out his response with such icy sarcasm, goosebumps prickle her skin. “She said ‘you must have faith, my lord. Your wife yet loves you.’”

Rey shakes her head _no_ , even though she knows her denial is a lie.

But she cannot blithely hand him another weapon to use against her, not when he has every advantage, not when he will take _everything_ from her, every last scrap of dignity, every last breath of her life.

His eyes flicker over her with cruel triumph and he repeats his earlier demand. “I would know how you escaped the City. The return to Coruscant will be long and tedious. Tell me everything.”

She sniffs and implores, “I _will_ tell you, my lord, but…I am _quite_ famished. And I need to use the washroom. Would you grant me a few moments alone, first?”

His eyes glitter with supernatural light as he searches for deceit in her request.

“As I said earlier, princess, I do not trust you, nor will I again.” His stare drifts to Hope, and Rey can see the trajectory of his thoughts. He works his tongue against the roof of his mouth before he relents, “I will have something brought to eat. I would…I would hold the child whilst you refresh yourself.”

Knowing this is the best offer she’s going to get, she nods submissively. She is growing ravenously hungry, and feeding Hope burns many extra calories. And she needs to pee and wash after trekking through the forest.

Still, she is having trouble yielding the baby to him. He is still so angry with her. She can feel it pouring from him, hot and sickly.

“I’ve heard new mothers are notoriously and fiercely protective, particularly Omegas. I swear on my life I will not harm her.” His eyes blaze, ferocious and sincere. “I swear it,” he whispers with a coaxing furrow of his brow. Rey believes him. 

Kylo Ren is no liar, despite his other sins.

_No, it has always been I who is the one who lies._

Tentatively, she suggests, “You might remove your armor first, my lord.”

He stands and strips his armor with brief efficiency, stowing the pieces in the drawers set under his cot. From there, he pulls out clean clothes and lays them beside her.

“I brought you something to wear,” he murmurs gently. “Nothing glamorous, but comfortable and clean and I daresay warmer than that nightgown.”

At the first sign of genuine softness from him, Rey suddenly wants to burst into tears.

She lifts the baby into his outstretched hands and mutters, “Be sure to support her head and…I’ll be right out.”

The warm brush of his fingers against hers is purely accidental, but it startles her into making a somewhat undignified retreat to the washroom. Once inside, she bolts the door and strips naked.

The tears begin to fall before she steps into the shower, and they continue relentlessly. She tries not to think of the awed look on his face when he took their daughter in his arms, tries not to think of anything.

Instead, she does her very best to stay quiet as she sobs silently under the stream of lukewarm water so he cannot hear her heart breaking all over again.

She may yet love him, but she knows he does not love her. Nor will he.

Monsters are not capable of such things.

* * *

**Two Years Ago –**

They soak in his bath in quiet reverie, and as he bathes her, Kylo finally comes to the dawning conclusion he is in serious danger of…growing _fond_ of this girl.

It would have alarmed him a span of days ago, but now he doesn’t terribly mind.

In the aftermath of their last passionate embrace, she had promptly passed out, a smile on her pretty face, complete with an enchanting little dimple in her cheek. She remained so for hours, inelegantly draped over him and snoring violently, drooling all over his chest as she unwittingly gave him her best impression of a very loud, very sated corpse.

But he had lain awake until dawn began to lighten the sky, more bewildered than ever as he recalled that odd feeling, that prickling sensation of something being _off_.

He is yet to be wholly convinced she isn’t trying to use sex in a misguided attempt to manipulate him, though _why_ she would do such a thing makes no sense whatsoever.

Instead, he tries to reconcile his doubts with the bald facts. If she is trying to seduce him, surely she will employ more sophisticated wiles than being utterly and ridiculously adorable.

She has no idea how to groom herself or behave around servants and demonstrates an appalling lack of taste, and if she were trying to lure him into granting favors, surely she would not have fought him at every turn before succumbing with such obstinate and ungracious hesitance? True when in heat, she did eventually submit to nature and proximity with hearty enthusiasm.

But nothing about her capitulation seems remotely premeditated or even seductive in any traditional sense.

And while she did help his mother escape, she did it out of concern for Leia being left to rot in a dungeon cell, not from anything malicious.

No, Rey is an innocent, he decides.

Well. Perhaps not so very innocent now. Nevertheless, she’s been heat-fasted and has no idea their sexual chemistry is beyond normal. She is clueless over how Kylo allowed their lovemaking to spin so quickly out of control. A worldly young woman would be furious with him right now, outraged at being used like a common prostitute and not deflowered like a gently-reared lady, heat or no.

Yes. She is as she appears to be. A young, naïve Omega brought into a strange world and adapting remarkably well to her new circumstances.

It is the only sensible explanation, and Kylo is a logical man. And though he’s been unable to resist her charms thus far, he chalks up his own lack of discipline to pheromones.

_She does have blood-of-gold, rumored to be irresistible. A weaker Alpha might already have succumbed to her every whim and given her anything she asked. And I decidedly have not._

Even though he offered her a favor in exchange for her to cease crying, this was certainly not from any machinations on her part. And if she was savvy, she might have asked for some political boon or even an expensive trinket, not just permission to use his given name.

He grins. _I do rather enjoy the way she bellows it in the heat of passion._

Deciding to check his suspicions, he sets his worries aside, confident his formidable willpower will overcome any future obstacles he might encounter in managing her.

She has a kind heart and a compassionate nature, is all. So long as he maintains a firm hand, there is no reason why they cannot coexist in friendly companionship.

Someday she might even grow to love him, which would be appropriate.

Ideal, actually.

Yes. She _should_ love him, and he should encourage it. He will be generous and benevolent and by her next heat he will have had time to adjust to the lure of her _intoxicating_ blood – surely the only thing to blame for him nearly losing his head so many times these past days – and then she will bear him children, and-

As he rinses the soapy suds from her skin, her small, soft hands rest lightly on his thighs and he wills himself not to get aroused.

The scent of her hair is driving him to distraction, the slight weight of her pressed against him conjuring every protective, warrior instinct he owns. The view of her breasts is just _lovely_ from this angle, and the soft roundness of her hips rubbing against the insides of his thighs is sweet torment.

He sweeps her hair aside and feels like a rampaging animal at the sight of the back of her neck.

But then he wonders if she might be pregnant already and another wave of fierce lust washes over him, and any guilt over her condition is temporarily forgotten in the wake of primal gratification.

_You’re mine._

They remain in the bath until their fingers prune and the water cools. He can hear the servants return to his room to clear the breakfast tray and build a small fire and change the deplorably abused bedding.

Eventually, he concedes to the inevitable, knowing they cannot prolong rejoining the real world any longer. And so he wraps his bride in one of his robes, far too big for her, though she does not seem to mind, and carries her to a chair by the hearth so she doesn't catch a chill and so her hair can dry near the fire's warmth. 

He would happily comb it for her but for the worrisome notion it might result in another distracting bout of sex, and he prefers to cling to these last few moments of quiet intimacy before their inevitable return to reality.

“Our guests will be rousing from their, ah, celebratory activities, and we will attend the First Morning feast,” he remarks, reluctantly donning clothes for casual feasting instead of dragging Rey back to bed so they can destroy another set of sheets.

“First Morning feast?” she asks, pulling his comb through her hair.

“Traditional. To confirm our union before the High Court, so they might examine the extent of our coupling and affirm we are well and truly bonded.”

“Examine the extent…? And what does _that_ entail?” 

“Nothing more than allowing them to view the marks I put on you,” he says hoarsely, meeting her eyes in his dressing mirror. He clears his throat. “I will promenade you before the court, and we will greet our courtiers. They may be… _bold_ in their comments, though you should know there is no shame in their jesting. It will be meant in good spirits. Then we will feast.”

“Oh.” Her attention seems caught by the Dejarik table at her side.

“Do you play?” he asks, unable to resist approaching her and taking his comb in hand, so he might stroke it through the silk of her hair and discreetly sniff her scent, grown richer and even more impossibly addictive now that his own notes mingle so fluently with hers.

She allows him to proceed without any sign of resistance, and this pleases him, how easily she submits.

“I _do_ play,” she says. “Though I was not formally trained by such a great master as Luke Skywalker.”

“Ah, you found our game?” For once, his spirit does not darken at the mention of his uncle, and again Kylo wonders what magic she’s weaving.

“There is a Dejarik table in my apartments. I found your game listed as still in play. Perhaps I should challenge you to a match.”

“I should warn you my skills have progressed well beyond a fourth-level padawan's. If we play, I fear I shall trounce you without mercy.”

She tilts her head back to smirk at his presumption.

“You oughtn’t underestimate me, my lord. I’ve never been formally rated, though I have been told I play passably well, despite my inexperience.”

He purses his lips at her unintentional metaphor and he smiles down at her. Her eyes flash with a fascinating glimmer of competitive challenge, and he is once again reminded of nothing so much as a fighter waving a red flag in front of a rathtar.

_I would devour every scrap and find you utterly delicious._

“Well. Then I very much look forward to matching wits with you, my love.”


	13. Arbiter of Fate

# Chapter Thirteen – Arbiter of Fate

_When you officially enter court, you will feel as if eyes are watching, always. And they will be. You will be under constant scrutiny the instant you arrive in Coruscant, of course, but even more so once you are married._

_Ideally, you will have time to make friends, to establish alliances, especially with members of his war council. If this cannot be achieved, you must use your discretion to sow dissent among the First Order’s ranks however possible._

_We cannot predict how this plays out. We have only the end goal: Destroy the First Order._

Given the haste in which her wedding and subsequent marital relations occurred, Rey knows she will spend more time actively playing the game and less time setting the board, so to speak.

Now her heat is over, and she finds herself thinking more clearly, more analytically again.

When the moon next waxes full, she will be more prepared, more fortified against the startlingly _emotional_ aspect of sex and the overwhelming sensation of giving herself over to another person.

_I may not have the advantage of time, but my husband seems…doting._

This unexpected boon lightens her spirits. Rey never really expected this to go off perfectly, but she is good at finding the positives in a difficult situation.

True, she was not afforded the hoped-for year before she married the Supreme Leader, but in hindsight, the chances of that ever happening were slim to none, at best. As it is, she must compartmentalize her feelings for him and deal with all of that later.

She is here now and well-positioned in Coruscant. She can certainly begin planting the seeds of discord and chaos in the First Order.

When she exits her rooms, she finds Kylo waiting for her in the antechamber, standing beneath that appalling ceiling which maybe perhaps isn’t _so_ awful…until his eyes rake her before flickering upward and back to her again.

His brow lifts ironically and he grins with unrepentant arrogance, and she only blushes a little in her attempt to ignore the way her stomach flips at him being so blatantly… _him_.

“Gods, you look ravishing, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing her outstretched hand before coaxing her into a turn so he might view her ensemble.

“Thank you, my lord,” she replies, not totally comfortable in her new outfit. It is one of Padmé Amidala’s hastily refurbished morning gowns, and the buttery-yellow color suits her. Though her dress does not outline her figure as her wedding gown did, Rey feels far too exposed, particularly under her husband’s smoldering gaze.

The gown is cut simply, low and tight in the bosom, with an off-the-shoulder neckline and tiny, puffed sleeves. From the high empire waist, the satiny fabric falls in sweeping folds straight to the floor, draped loosely, without petticoats to fill out the skirts.

To show off the flattering gown, her hair has been braided into a coronet, pulled high to reveal her upper back, neck, and shoulders.

Although Phasma paled with alarm when she first saw the marks Kylo had made, she quickly rallied and insisted Rey should expose as much as possible while remaining decent.

_Decent being a relative term._

She can practically feel his evaluative stare caressing the bruises and teeth imprints, though his reaction leans more on the side of excessive satisfaction than solicitous concern.

She holds back a sarcastic remark.

This, letting him have her, was always to be part of the plan. And in truth, it is not so horrible. Not horrible at all.

Warmth flutters through her and she recognizes the sensation as sexual arousal. Kylo’s nostrils flare as he catches her scent, and he breaks into a knowing grin, the cad.

_Gods, he smells divine. I wish–_

_Pay attention, Rey. Get your head straight. Things are about to get interesting_.

“Shall we go and meet my court?” he invites with far too much charm, and she cannot help but smile back, despite her nerves.

Without a word, she takes his proffered arm, her fingertips tingling at the flex of muscle under the luxuriant fabric of his morning coat, a deep, dark blue trimmed with gold braid.

They proceed once again through the small gallery and Great Hall. In the morning light, the Hall is spectacular to behold, simultaneously catching sunlight through the large stained-glass windows and light from the magical floor, which sparkles and glows beneath their feet.

They cross the rippling floor to the archways lining the opposite side of the gallery. Rey has not visited this part of the palace, but she knows the royal dining hall lies just beyond. Her tutors gave her a detailed explanation, and Rey is once again relieved when her observations match the descriptions provided during her lessons.

Several stories high, the room is taller than it is wide. The high table sits at the far end of the room, flanked by two massive white marble fireplaces. This is where she will sit with Kylo and other honored guests of the court.

Perpendicular to the high table is a long table, set low enough for guests to recline on pillows and cushions instead of chairs, allowing them to indulge in, as Kylo remarked earlier, _feasting and fucking each other into mindless, orgiastic oblivion_.

Yes, this is certainly the main site of the court’s much-rumored licentious behavior. She is grateful the highest of nobility is not expected to participate in those _specific_ festivities.

As they enter, she notes the distinct odor of sex and a now familiar stench of many mingling scents, though mellower than it was at church during her wedding. The Knotted Moon has waned and with it, apparently, everyone’s hormones.

All eyes turn as they advance into the room, and Rey senses a sated joviality in the air that can only come from several days of hedonistic indulgence. The members of the court are all impeccably groomed, but many bleary eyes meet hers and quite a few guests have their own love bites on display.

She tries to remain alert between nerves and determination not to fail in her mission.

_Your power is in your newness; you are an unknown quantity. They will want to cultivate your favor until they can determine the strength of your position. The stronger you become, the more enemies you will accrue. Power is a strange and ugly thing._

_At court, jealousy is encouraged, especially as those in lower-ranking positions seek to improve their circumstances. You will do well to be neutral and not show any single person your favor._

_Rose will be a target, as she will be close to you. Rose can take care of herself, but it will be best to not draw attention to just how close you are – let them assume her presence is more from happenstance than anything._

_And you must watch for the Phoenix. The Phoenix may not be able to reveal himself directly or immediately, so you must pay attention._

_Once we establish a line of communication, it can start in motion a chain of events that cannot easily be stopped. The Phoenix is neither your friend, nor partner, nor ally. He operates independently and has only agreed to assist the efforts of the Resistance because we share a mutual desire to ensure the Lottery is not restored._

Rey scans the room for Rose, even though she knows the maid will not be present.

Sure enough, Rose is not there, only a room full of strange faces looking back at her with thinly veiled interest.

With something of an elegant flourish, Kylo speaks just loudly enough for his voice to carry through the room. “I would introduce my bride. Is she not lovely?”

As one, they bow or curtsy. He leads Rey into the throng, and she can feel their eyes crawling over her, taking in every mark on her skin almost as greedily as Kylo had done.

_If you choose to make a friend, know that person is dispensable, though they must never be aware. If you choose to make an enemy, choose wisely._

_In this matter, you will have no honor. Honor will get you killed. Honor has no use at court._

_Most courtiers know this, have grown up learning this. They will smile and gift you with praise one minute and be the first to twist the knife in your back if it will win them an advantage._

_You would do well to make an impression._

_A strong first impression is infinitely better than a weak one._

She holds her head aloft and tries to appear more sophisticated than shocked when she catches whispers and then a few more boldly spoken exclamations.

“Good gods, my lord, you have so thoroughly claimed this girl, I fear there is nothing left for the rest of us!”

“Heavens, milord, did your servants not bring you _anything_ to eat these past days? And so you were driven to feast upon your poor bride’s tender flesh, instead?”

She can feel her cheeks turn pink, but they stroll past the courtiers, Kylo smirking with long-suffering patience until they near the high table.

“Do mine eyes deceive me, or do I count _four_ mating bites?”

Kylo flashes a predatory grin and growls, “Five, actually, though one is not for public regard.”

Her face flushes crimson when she realizes along with everyone else what he’s referring to.

A ripple of excitement and humor flows through the court, and Rey feels their collective scrutiny drift conspicuously downward, as if they might view that _particular_ bite at the top of her thigh through her dress.

“The Kiss of Eros? Surely you were named God of the Dead, my lord? Methinks the seers misread your stars.”

“La, perhaps he has forgotten he was named Hades and has named himself the God of Love, instead!”

“Lucky princess to have made such a trade!”

“Hail Eros!”

“Ah but look at her sweet face – she cannot possibly have been _correctly_ deflowered, my lord, when she still blushes like an innocent child!”

“Mayhap we should send you back to your rooms, Supreme Leader, until we are assured the job is _properly_ finished.”

Kylo chuckles and shakes his head with good humor.

The marks so blatantly displayed on the back of her neck obviously contradict the jest.

They've moved past most everyone when she hears it, a low-muttered observation.

“Milord has discovered an appetite for a scavenging sand rat, though I cannot see the appeal, myself. We lost too many fighters acquiring such a _substandard_ specimen.”

Rey stiffens at the caustic remark. She cannot help but turn and seek out the owner of the grumbly voice. She meets the glare of a florid-faced, stocky man who looks to be around Leia’s age, standing with a well endowed woman in a very low cut gown. They are somewhat apart from everyone else and clearly oblivious to the fact the vicious comments were overheard.

Beside her, Kylo has also paused, and Rey’s chest and neck redden to match her face as she’s suddenly overcome with humiliation. She has only a moment to discern the man’s military uniform and the woman next to him tittering and smacking his arm, half-appalled.

But then, she senses her husband’s fury clearly through their bond, a burning coal that flares white-hot.

His warm breath tickles her ear. “I heard him, too,” he vows with a low-voiced threat. “I assure you it will be dealt with momentarily.”

She sucks in a shuddering breath, ready for anything. Despite his casual nonchalance, a sinister danger rolls off him.

But he does nothing immediately punitive, only ducks his head to press a searing-hot kiss to her naked shoulder, then another against her scent gland, sending a shockwave of carnal heat tearing through her belly.

_Gods, I want him again, and how is this even possible after the past few days?_

Distracted, her head spins with possible outcomes as he leads her to their place at the head of the table and a large, carved chair they are clearly meant to share.

He occupies the chair as he does everything else, with relentless confidence, pulling Rey into his lap so she perches on his well-muscled thigh and is forced to prop against him by draping an arm around his neck. This seems to signal to their guests, and they seat themselves at their designated cushions at the low table, chattering and laughing and flirting with each other.

The man who made the rude comment sits mid-table, and Rey can barely look at him, though Kylo seems to be glaring furiously in his direction.

“None others sit at the high table with us, my lord?” she asks, more to break the stewing silence than from curiosity.

“It is tradition we share the high table at First Morning feast, just us,” he murmurs distractedly. “We are to be each other’s company and entertainment, I think, and provide something of an amorous spectacle for our guests.”

This is another element her tutors described but for which she feels inadequately prepared.

A gong sounds from somewhere and several dozen servants wearing pristine white livery arrive with the first course.

Any joy she might have found at the meticulously timed arrival and disposition of dozens and dozens of mouthwatering dishes is somewhat quashed under the weight of her husband’s simmering mood.

 _He is outraged_ , she realizes. _On my behalf. How…extraordinary._

She knows the rules of dining are more relaxed during a feast, but she surreptitiously notices the guests seated far down at the foot of the low table quickly fill their plates and take a bite before the others at the top of the table even reach for serving utensils.

Kylo nuzzles the side of her neck and mutters, “They will try to hurry for our sake, so we aren’t forced to wait interminably as we might do under more formal circumstances. Call upon Captain Canady to attend you.”

Rey does not need to ask which courtier is Captain Canady. It is the horrible red-faced man who made that awful remark.

And at this moment, she realizes something else rather extraordinary.

She is about to wield the power of life and death over another human being.

For a few seconds, she grapples with the concept, acutely conscious this is not the same as knowing Resistance fighters will die coming to her rescue or even that the galaxy is under martial law because of her.

No. She holds _Canady’s_ life in her hands. And now she must decide.

_A strong first impression will serve me best. And so they shall have one._

Her breath is shaky, but her voice rings clearly and coldly across the hall.

“Captain Canady. I would have you attend me.”

A great calm washes over her, and she senses Kylo’s murderous approval.

Canady pales and blusters, “Yes, of course, my…lady…your _ladyship,_ ” and scrambles rather clumsily from his cushion. He is halfway to her before he whirls around, trots back to his spot, and lifts his overly full plate, belatedly remembering his manners.

Suddenly, the only thing she can hear is her own wickedly thumping pulse. Or is it her husband's?

Canady approaches with the slow, weaving caution of someone who is slightly drunk, but Rey quashes her pity for him and for what is about to occur. If she knows Kylo, it will not be good.

_His misfortune. Not mine._

The doomed man sets his plate before her with a bow, sliding it awkwardly across the table, nudging the linen cloth out of place.

He reaches to take their plate in trade, but Kylo grunts, “No. You won’t be needing that.”

In the space of a moment, his mood has shifted from amiable groom to infuriated sovereign.

She rather finds herself caught up in fascination as he transforms into the God of Death before her very eyes. If she did not comprehend it before, she is beginning to understand why the name _Kylo Ren_ inspires fear in the hearts of so many.

Right now, he exudes a venomous wrath. It sizzles off of him like radioactive energy.

Everyone in the room quietens, horrified and riveted as he zeroes in on his quarry.

“Tell me. What did you _just_ say?” Kylo grinds out so softly Rey wonders if Canady heard him.

The captain stutters, “Forgive me, Supreme Leader. I - _just_ now? Ahhh, I said…my ladyship?”

“Before that,” Kylo purrs. “When you were comparing my wife’s value to that of your troops. What did he call you?” Kylo’s dark eyes move to Rey’s before landing back on Canady’s. “Oh, yes. A _substandard_ _specimen_.”

“Did I?” Canady chokes. “That was ill-spoken of me. I truly meant no offense. My lady, I most humbly beg your forgiveness.”

Kylo’s voice cuts like a whip through the room. “You will not address my lady wife again.”

Canady alters his bloodshot gaze between Rey and Kylo before he mumbles, “I…I am _most_ sorry, my lord.”

 _And are you sorry for the many Resistance soldiers you murdered?_ Rey fumes, filled with sudden vindictiveness.

Kylo seems to be feeding off her energy as she is pulling in his, and it is odd, this flood of darkness, but not unwelcome. Rather, it is fuel to a fire she never knew was in her.

“What _else_ did you say?” Kylo’s voice lilts dangerously.

The captain has gone from pasty to a rather sickly green as he begins to understand the extent of his lord’s anger.

“I would rather not repeat it, my lord…before the entire court,” Canady admits with shamefaced pleading.

“And yet you would say it within her hearing and mine? You would even speak such vile thoughts aloud? Perhaps we should ask how my lady wife feels about it?”

Kylo’s silky intonation does nothing to lessen the deadly glint in his eyes. His grip tightens on Rey’s waist and she wills herself not to flinch.

He kisses her shoulder and coaxes, “Go on, my darling. You may say anything you wish.”

The air thickens with impossible tension, and Rey speaks with quiet dignity, choosing her words carefully for maximum impact.

“I do not, nor will I ever claim to have more than very humble origins, Captain. It is true I am from a desert planet and spent many days of my youth scavenging in the sand for lack of better entertainment. None can argue my life in a Jedi cloister was quite rustic, even primitive at times.”

Pointedly, she squeezes Kylo’s arm. _Pay attention, now, husband._

She continues, “Though I was born to a low station, I find the cut of cruel words still holds a sting. I may have blood-of-gold, but it bleeds as red as any other’s when I am hurt.”

The captain’s posture, slumped in relief at her opening remarks, has stiffened again, his eyes darting furtively from the floor to his furious master.

She squeezes Kylo’s arm again, as if reflexively. As if her grief cannot be contained.

Kylo inhales and she strikes her killing blow, a tearful glance not to the captain, but to her husband.

“You saw fit to forgive my many trespasses against you, my lord, and even thought to raise me above my low-born origins and marry me yourself, despite what I have done. Therefore, I can lay no rightful claim to offense at the captain’s truly spoken words, no matter how hurtful. I can only hope you will recall how mercifully you treated me when you consider a just punishment for him.”

The only movement in the room is Kylo’s twitching eyelid as he stares impassively at Canady for a full minute.

“The captain,” Kylo finally bites out, “is neither young nor an innocent, raised in ignorance of higher protocols as you were, nor is he unaware of how to conduct himself in my court." If possible, his voice grows colder yet. "I find your lack of discipline _quite_ displeasing, Canady. If you cannot rule your own tongue, how am I to trust you to manage scores of my troops in the heat of battle?”

“I beg your forgiveness, my lord, for any offense I may have caused you or your consort.”

Canady seems unable to stop talking, though Rey has no problem with the man digging his own grave.

“My _consort?_ ” Kylo rages. “Did you not hear me refer to her as my lady wife, just now?”

Rey tenses and a gasp flows through the room.

“I-I-”

“I might forgive a tasteless remark made of me, but I cannot forgive an insult to her.”

Canady drops to his knees, growing more desperate as his fate becomes ever more apparent. As if summoned telepathically, four Omicrons appear.

“My lord, I meant no insult! Surely I did not understand-”

Kylo interrupts, “You may rest assured, I shall educate you on the _proper_ way to address your betters soon enough. On the palace steps. At my earliest convenience.”

Canady’s fleshy lips quiver wetly, and Rey finds herself repulsed as the man continues to bluster and beseech for mercy.

“My lord, I beg of you! I’ve served you and the First Order for many years. Please! I-I knew your grandfather, Lord Vader, and he–”

“Do not speak his name to me.”

“But I-” Canady falters and begins to weep. “I cannot believe this! Will no one stand up for me?”

Frantically, he searches the length of the low table for a friendly face, but no one says a word. Instead, the courtiers look on in mute disapproval, scowling and shaking their heads as if they will not be tainted by showing signs of sympathy for the man’s predicament brought on by his own foolishness.

“You may believe I anticipate our appointment _quite_ eagerly,” Kylo sneers.

Without further instruction, the Omicrons drag the blubbering captain from the hall and the remaining guests burst into excited, scandalized chatter as they resume their breakfast feast.

_That man is going to die a brutal death for insulting me. And Kylo just declared me his wife._

He raises his voice so all can hear. “Let it be known my wife is as worthy as mine own blood. Any insult to her is as to me.”

Kylo lowers his gaze. His eyes still glow with ethereal light, but he speaks with soft reassurance. “My own grandfather was born to a slave and raised on a poor desert planet, and he became Imperial Emperor of the known galaxy, a true god among men. I care not where you came from, only that you are mine. And I will not have you treated as anything less than a goddess.”

Shocked, Rey can only answer with, “Thank you, my lord husband.”

_His anger is a sharp blade. A weapon I can use. So long as it is never turned against me._

As quickly as it sprouted, his fury evaporates.

“Come, my darling, I would have us put this ugliness behind us and enjoy the remainder of our celebration. Now, won’t you eat a bite?”

Though he is swamped with an indescribable sullenness after Canady is taken away, Rey quickly cheers him.

She perches on his knee and fusses over selecting the choicest bites of fruits and sweetmeats, which she places on his tongue with adorable seriousness. She plies him with wine until he mellows and is comforted by her soft weight pressing against him, soothed by her sweetly bashful public displays of affection.

After the first course is served, a troupe of musicians parades through the hall, and he is more entertained watching Rey clap and cheer than he is by the music itself.

She declares them “marvelous” and “lovely” and her enthusiasm spills over until even Kylo eventually cracks a smile and congratulates the thrilled troupe leader, promising to add a hefty sum to their fee for pleasing the princess so thoroughly.

Rey beams with childlike earnestness and kisses his cheek and it burns where her lips touch him. He tries to remember when he last allowed someone to touch him unless it was to shave him or fit his clothes or spar or, long ago, for the carnal attentions of a courtesan, bought and paid for to chase away his loneliness for a night.

But even he cannot recall the last time someone willingly caressed him without his express permission.

The realization might sadden him, but he does not have time to feel sad; with each new course there is new entertainment, magicians and players and even a jester, though he looks somewhat nervous to cause offense and is booed from the room rather quickly.

With surprising perceptiveness, Rey laughs at how the jester seems relieved to be let go with nothing worse than a few hisses and jeers, and Kylo finds his heart twisting in his chest as he wonders again what her life was like, virtually alone on a desert planet with nothing but Jedi monks for company and only a cruddy trading post to visit whenever she desired a change of scenery.

Throughout the feast he punctuates his eating and drinking with increasingly languorous kisses against the back of her neck, wishing he could bite her again here and now and coat his tongue with the indescribably fine taste of her.

Instead, he peppers her shoulders and the slight bumps of her spine with kisses, drawing goosebumps to rise on her arms and scenting her arousal until he’s heady with it, knowing he is driving her to distraction.

“How many more courses are there?” She feeds him a spoonful of some chocolaty thing.

“A few…” he murmurs, eyes fixed upon her pretty pink mouth.

“And then what?”

“And then I have an appointment on the palace steps.”

“Oh,” she breathes, her eyes growing round and wide as saucers. “What about after?”

“I might be long into the evening. But then I shall hope to find you waiting for me.”

She smiles, and the room around him fades into inconsequential nothingness when she twirls a lock of his hair around her finger and mutters, “Well, my lord, you’d best fortify yourself so you can make it a _proper_ reunion when you find me again.”

But he does not finish with Canady until close to midnight, and he knows he must bathe the creature’s blood from his hands before he seeks out Rey.

He enters his rooms and finds them quietly empty. He strips his clothes and scrubs as quickly and efficiently as he can, trying to kill the reminder of the dying man’s screams as they’d echoed in his ears for the past hours.

A Bleeding is never pretty, nor easy. Though sometimes it is necessary.

Rey must be asleep by now, in her own apartments. He debates for an entire minute on whether he should check on her, knowing if he does, he will undoubtedly wake her.

On the one hand, she definitely needs to catch up on sleep. The gallant thing to do would be to leave her alone and let her rest.

But he _wants_ her, especially after spending the better part of the afternoon and evening avenging her honor, much to the horrified delight of the crowds at the foot of the palace steps.

He is sure rumors will thrive among the commoners, reports of how the Supreme Leader could not even make it through the First Morning feast without finding cause to murder someone on behalf of his new bride.

Canady had served loyally, and Kylo admits he will miss the man’s canny military expertise. But he will not house someone who so easily forgets Kylo’s own origins, nor someone who demonstrates such an outrageous lack of self-restraint.

And he’d sensed Rey’s undeniable hurt over the callous remarks. That alone was unforgivable.

_Rey._

_She must be sleeping by now, but I want to look at her, just to make sure she’s-_

At the back of his neck, he senses a tingling awareness.

_Something’s wrong._

_She’s having a bad dream. A nightmare._

All good intentions forgotten, he doesn’t hesitate to run to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh, I had fun writing this chapter. 
> 
> I have been blown away by all the comments and excellent insights you all are contributing, and I will be catching up on replies over the next few days, so please bear with me.
> 
> I love you guys! XOXO!!!


	14. A Freely Given Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOLZ, am having ISSUES with my frickin' computer, so I apologize in advance for any editing errors. I'll come back tomorrow and check on it, but in the meantime, I need a glass of fuckin' wine. XOXO!!!

# Chapter Fourteen – A Freely Given Gift

The sands of Jakku can be hot enough to blister bare skin, but she never minds about such things.

She has outgrown her shoes again, and while the monks have given her scraps of leather to tie around her feet, she prefers to forego the hassle altogether and just go barefoot.

Bare feet are easier and her feet are tough. Strong.

Besides. If the happabores and steelpeckers can step on the burning hot sands, then so can a girl.

Even a girl like Rey.

The lady assures Rey she is very special, very important. The lady comes to Jakku sometimes to check on her and ensure the monks are still feeding and clothing her, no matter how meagerly, though Rey doesn’t know any different.

Rey’s parents sent her away in the first wave of evacuations, but they did not know about her golden blood.

They _never_ would have left her alone if they had known, she is sure of it. She cannot remember them, but even an orphan like Rey knows parents never willingly leave their children. Not unless they have to. The lady says so.

The lady also says the blood in Rey is worth more than everything at the trading post, many times over. Worth more than a kingdom.

Rey does not know the value of a kingdom, but it certainly must be more than the rations store at Plutt’s station. And she cannot imagine a more valuable hoard in the whole galaxy than Plutt’s stash of rations.

She saw it once, Plutt’s many bins stacked full of little wrapped packages of nourishment, which are also used as currency by most of the local citizens. Sometimes, late at night, she wonders if she might ever be fast enough to slip past Plutt’s ugly guards and steal a few packets.

Not for eating, of course. No, for _playing_.

She knows stealing is wrong, though, and since she does not wish to confess her sinful thoughts at next temple, she focuses her mind on something else.

Today is Water Day, and, even better, Lor San Tekka will be in Niima with his Dejarik board. And even better _still_ , the monks and the Caretakers will be busy replenishing the barrels and cistern and will not have any time for Rey at all.

If she cannot keep from being underfoot, they will chase her off and send her to meditate.

So, she will preempt that possibility and run directly over to the trading post, instead.

If she isn’t in the way in the first place, she reasons, then she won’t have to spend her day in the dreary gloom of the temple, kneeling in the dirt and finding the light.

It’s hard sometimes, finding the light.

Besides, she has hoarded a whole extra portion and she plans to put it to good use.

Yes.

_Today I will have another lesson._

Lessons are always costly, though they may be bought by anyone with funds to pay the fee. Food is scarce, and Rey hates to go without it. But that is the price one pays to learn Dejarik.

And last time she’d almost won. She’d been _sooo_ close. That had been a good lesson.

The hot sands will burn her feet, but she does not mind. Today she will play Dejarik.

Maybe today she will win.

Even if she does not win, she will learn. And that is the true prize.

Besides, if San Tekka is in a generous mood, he might explain more about just why _exactly_ Golden Blood is so special.

Rey pokes her head from her bedroom door and looks both ways. It is always easier to go to the trading post if she does not need to ask permission to leave the grounds.

If she accidentally meets one of the monks on the way and he tells her to check with the abbot first, then _he_ will inevitably give her a few chores or tell her to brush her hair or put on a clean tunic before she goes.

She steps into the corridor and her heart skips a beat when she sees the lady coming toward her. She did not know the lady would visit today.

The lady is regal and very beautiful, with sad, dark eyes, and a low, serious voice.

She looks like a princess.

Rey becomes quite conscious she has not brushed her hair for days and her elbows are caked black with dirt.

The lady seems to note these things as well, though she does not remark upon it.

“Come with me, child. I have just received some news that will affect you.”

Rey takes the lady’s hand, her rations packets rustling uncomfortably under her tunic. For some reason, Rey suddenly feels small and bewildered, like a little desert animal who burrows into a hole to avoid the too-bright light.

It is safe in the dark.

_The Resistance is your family now._

Time passes and these days everyone watches her. She cannot run off to play Dejarik at the trading post anymore, not even though she has shoes that fit her and better clothes and gets the best portions at every meal.

_My son has been named Supreme Leader. She will be safer here for now. No one must know what she is._

_Rey? You must never tell anyone. Ever. Or they will destroy this system to find you. Just as they destroyed your parents’ home planet. Do you understand?_

She does understand and does her best to be obedient, to be good. She would not bring destruction upon those who have helped her all her life.

Leia visits less frequently but when she does, she always brings something marvelous, a trinket or confection or sometimes coffee. But even news from the outside worlds is something Rey begins to crave, to look forward to with almost painful enthusiasm.

Rey is not a girl anymore, but neither is she a woman. She is in-between, neither light nor dark, but gray. She is the color of the sky just before the sun comes up, the shade of the dunes in the fleeting evening dusk.

_You must confess your feelings, so we know when you are close, ready._

She is nearly ready, she thinks, and something is coming, something she isn’t sure she wants but is the _thing_ that will change her and make her valuable, more precious than even her blood, Leia swears, and Rey believes her. The Caretakers seem obsessed with something called “presenting” and they watch her while she sleeps and she is never left alone not even for a minute, though she still feels so terribly lonely.

She longs for a friend, a family.

_Rey is older now, nearly a woman. Given her blood type, she will most likely present as an Omega, so you must watch her closely. I would have her heat-fasted in the Jedi tradition. I will make it worth your efforts._

Rey has tutors now, people to show her the wonders of the galaxy and the horrors of the past. To teach her how her parents died under the greedy oppression of the First Order and how Rey, a nobody from nowhere, can make a difference to billions just like her parents, if only she can be brave and strong and willing.

They prepare her for the most important mission, which may even require her to lay down her life. But she will give it willingly if it brings freedom to the galaxy and saves future girls from growing up lonely orphans and future boys from becoming hateful tyrants who turn against their families and break their mothers' hearts.

Rey will happily sacrifice herself, so long as Leia Organa’s eyes glow with affection and maybe even love when Rey tells her she will be brave and strong, too, like the Skywalkers, and help the Resistance.

Leia is not Rey’s mother, and she feels guilty because she cannot remember her _real_ mother, but…maybe someday Leia will love her, and Rey will know what it feels like, to finally have–

_Hate. He hates me._

Canady’s eyes burn with it, boring into hers with heart-stopping malignance.

_Scavenging sand rat._

_Substandard specimen._

The stocky man looks weak, pathetic even, as he squirms helpless and naked on the altar set into the stone steps of the palace.

 _He has let himself run to fat, another sign of undisciplined living,_ she notes with an idle lack of sympathy. He will scream and beg and plead and there will be no stopping his fate.

Even in sleep, she can take a vindictive pleasure in what her husband is doing outside.

“Any last words before I cut your foul tongue from your head?” Kylo purrs in that deadly voice of his, the lethal chill of it sending icy shivers down the spine of every creature within earshot.

Canady blinks up in a panic, and Rey knows he is well and truly sorry. The knowledge pleases her, this bone-deep _knowing_ of his fear…it’s…delicious.

Something to be savored in a long, lonely night.

Kylo’s eyes glint with demonic light and he unsheathes his dagger and continues his work methodically, without ceremony.

_Now. Scream for me._

Canady’s shouts are unpleasantly strident, yet Kylo gives no indication he hears them.

_Bleed for me._

Only when the man begins to beg for death does she know her husband’s work is nearly done.

He is the God of Death, but he does not love this.

_Why must I destroy everything I love?_

He does not relish this task, though he performs it with practiced expertise and an utter lack of mercy.

_Why must everything I love betray me?_

He loathes himself for what he is doing, it is tearing him apart, splitting his soul down to the marrow of his bones.

But he does not stop.

_Stop. Stop it._

He cannot, nor will he. In his mind, the dying man is always the same, and he looks very much like Ben, except for the eyes.

Ben’s eyes. Exactly like his mother’s, sad and dark and eternally haunted. 

_I have no family._

_The Resistance is your family now._

She thrashes awake, heart pounding recklessly when she senses a presence in her room.

“Rey?” His voice comes from the shadows. Her bed curtains are tugged aside and faint moonlight streams in along with his comforting scent that is hers now, too.

_He’s here._

“Ben?” she sobs. “What happened?”

He clambers onto the bed and drags her against his chest, crooning wordlessly. As she clings to him, he sweeps her sweat-matted hair from her face.

“Gods, Rey, you were having a nightmare, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I could…I think I could sense it.”

_I’m in your blood now, and you’re in mine._

She presses her face close and wraps her arms around him.

 _My Alpha. Smells good. Mine_.

He’s warm and sturdy and solid, but something lingers around him, volatile, like an unstable alchemical mixture. 

_Careful, Rey._

He scoots back and pulls her against him, smoothing his hand along her spine and murmuring nonsense until her breathing returns to normal.

“You could see my dream?” she asks tearfully, suddenly horrified.

_What if he saw me on Jakku with Leia?_

“Not really. I could just tell you were upset. I think perhaps the execution bled through our bond and caused some of your distress?”

 _No._ If she is being completely honest, she rather enjoyed witnessing the fear in Canady’s eyes, and this is something she will need to evaluate when she next visits temple.

No, it was Ben who made her sad, and how the dying man in his vision looked so very much like him.

“At the end. You were thinking of your father.”

He freezes. Something tentative and bleak radiates out of him, a chill that warns her to tread lightly.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I shouldn’t have said-”

“It’s all right. You’re right. I _was_ thinking of him. I always do.” He sounds troubled, and she hugs him, frightened by the undercurrents, despite his soft admission.

“Why did you hate him? Why did you…kill him?”

“I didn’t hate him. He betrayed me, most grievously. I had no choice,” he replies dully. 

_There’s always a choice_ , Rey thinks, though she doesn’t say it aloud.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, instead.

He settles into her pillows, pulling her with him, and resumes stroking her back.

“Tell me how you occupied the rest of your day, my love. I would hear how you spent the afternoon and evening.”

Still very much aware of the odd tension in the room, she leaps eagerly at the distraction and changes the subject.

“After the feast, I came back here and…I had another bath,” she admits. He chuckles, encouraging her to go on. “It’s just so amazing, to have hot water, as much as I want, any time I want it. It’s a miracle for-”

_A scavenging sand rat._

_“-_ someone like me.”

He merely clucks his tongue and chides, “Such a shameful indulgence. Two baths in a single day? I suppose the servants will gossip over their new mistress’s overly decadent inclinations. Or think she means to wash away my marks from her skin.”

Rey giggles, knowing his scold carries no rebuke.

“And what did you do after?” he prompts.

After emerging from her lovely bath, Phasma had daubed her various bites and cuts and bruises with more bacta ointment and put her in a dressing gown, even though it was the middle of the day, and Rey spent the entire afternoon exploring the library.

Then Phasma brought her tea and something to eat, and since Rey wasn’t entirely sure if she was allowed to leave her rooms, she spent the remainder of the day with her nose buried in a book.

When it grew late and Phasma recommended she go to bed, Rey had argued against staying awake to wait for her lord husband’s return, but Phasma promised he would find her when he was finished.

“And so, I went to sleep and then you found me, just as she said you would.”

“Hmmm. Yes, though I did not expect to find you wearing so many clothes,” he murmurs against her hair, tugging suggestively at her nightgown and tickling her ribs until she laughs and tries to squirm away.

“Well,” she snorts with humor, “my tutors always warned me I should never go to bed improperly attired…because I might never know when a middle of night emergency…would occur!”

“Middle of the night emergency?” he growls with playful outrage. “Such as being visited by a naked husband, perhaps?”

He tickles her until she squeals with breathless laughter, then he rolls her beneath him until her nightgown traps her legs.

“I confess I’m most curious what else your tutors advised in anticipation of middle of the night incidents.” He grins down at her and wiggles his eyebrows.

She giggles again and strokes the back of a finger over his jaw. His face is scratchy with the day’s whiskers and she finds the texture intriguingly distracting.

“Well, I have been watched during my sleep since I was fourteen, my lord, and so nothing dreadfully exciting was ever likely to happen.”

“Watched? Why?” He cocks his head. Then it seems to dawn on him. “Ah. The heat-fasting, of course. When did you know for sure?”

“Seventeen.”

“Hmmm. A late bloomer.” He presses a kiss to her temple. He seems more than a little curious, but she senses his ever-mercurial emotions boiling just under the surface. Canady’s execution still haunts him.

“Are you still upset? From earlier?” she asks, not surprised when he ignores her question. She can feel his eyes boring into hers, even in the dimness of her partially curtained bed.

“Do you even know _why_ you were watched so closely?” His dark eyes search her face, suddenly serious.

“Well, yes,” she replies primly. “So, I wouldn’t be tempted to… _steal_ something that didn’t belong to me.”

She falters, wondering if he understands her explanation. She is sure she will die of embarrassment if she has to say it out loud. But apparently, he has no qualms getting right to the point.

“You mean,” he prods, “they set guards over you to watch you sleep so you weren’t tempted to touch yourself?”

She is thankful for the shadows to hide her, certain her cheeks are burning hot. “Well, yes.”

“Gods, how utterly fucking barbaric,” he hisses furiously. The air around them seems to throb with wild emotion.

She blinks up at him, not sure she understands the extreme depths of his abhorrence.

He buries his face in her neck and nuzzles her scent gland until her toes curl. "I said it before, that I'm glad to be your first and only, but I swear to the gods, the more I hear of this nonsense, the more I wish to stamp it out."

She tries to explain. “Well, um. My tutors…said…when it comes to sex, men _are_ rather beastly and-”

Suddenly Rey can hear her pulse beating too rapidly, pounding against her ribs with a vague threat.

“Really? Is that what they said?” His voice has gone velvet-soft and a thrill of foreboding sizzles over her skin, making the fine hairs at the back of her neck stand on end.

Something propels her onward. She can’t seem to stop talking.

“…yes…” she breathes, unable to tear her eyes from his hypnotic stare.

_What is he doing? Is this compulsion he’s using on me?_

“And?” She doesn’t miss the perilous lilt in his voice.

She blurts out, “Well, it’s leverage, they said.”

He grows very quiet and still.

“Leverage?”

“Yes?”

“Explain.”

“Um. Only they said my virginity belongs to my husband, but if I let him have it, then I could…” She drifts off, confused.

“You could what? Get whatever you want?”

Her lips tremble, caught between the overwhelming compulsion to answer him and the knowledge that if she does, she will reveal far too much.

_He will not hesitate to employ charm or violence as he deems necessary._

_Never forget he is your enemy, Rey._

At once, it strikes her how he’s just now come from executing a man who served him faithfully for years over nothing more than a few ill-spoken words. She can still catch the faintest whiff of blood on his hands.

_Why must everything I love betray me?_

He’s drawing on his powers of compulsion as easily as drinking down a glass of water, pulling something wicked and sinister from the air until it swirls and wraps around her like a smothering blanket.

“Why would you be taught to use sex as a weapon and yet be kept physically unspoiled?” he mutters so softly she can hardly hear him, but for the edge to his voice, sharp as a blade. His eyes have grown flinty as they drill into hers.

“Not as a weapon,” she whispers in defense, unthinking, “Only as a means to manage you.”

He tightens his grip and his nostrils flare in warning. "Manage me?"

Belatedly, she stammers, “…I mean, not _you_ , specifically, just…”

_Be still, Omega._

“You only expected to marry just a year ago when you became betrothed to my uncle, and yet you’ve had tutors teaching you such things since you were how old?” His question is rumbled from deep in his chest, low and gravelly and she shivers under his hold.

_Oh, gods..._

“I assumed my education to be like any other of my status, my lord,” she rambles, “and I believed the monks who raised me would deign to reveal only that which I would need to make my way in whatever life was destined for me. Perhaps they foresaw-”

He tilts his head like a bird of prey sighting a mouse, and she quietens, feeling as if something outside her body is trying to possess her.

“And blood magic? What did they teach you of that?”

He’s asked of this before, and she doesn’t recall any mention of such a thing, though the thought of it sends a heavy pulse of desire into her belly. She rather does like the way he tastes.

Her lips part and she is about to ask what he means when he grinds out, “I think you need a different lesson, my love.”

“What?”

“Though I suppose I should be grateful for their diligence…” he muses, licking and nibbling the side of her neck until she moans. “Guarding my _property_ with such meticulous devotion…”

At this rude proclamation, she flails, instantly offended and trying to push him away. He spends a few seconds wrangling her fists into his grasp.

“Did they not teach you the rest of it?” He searches her face with the harsh precision of a practiced interrogator, and she feels it again, an odd compulsion to answer him.

“The rest of what?” she snaps rudely. 

He lightly cages her throat in his hand, stroking his thumb and fingers over the scent glands on either side. He holds her there until his touch draws forth a wet trickle of slick between her legs and warm, unfurling heat burns inside her, catching her breath.

Panicking, she wonders if she’s going into heat again.

He whispers for her to put her arms up and she can find no reason not to, can muster no resistance as he drags her nightgown over her head and tosses it aside, crouching above her like a huge, shadowed beast.

She can see it in his eyes, what he intends, she can feel it pouring out of him, now, black fury tinged with betrayal and lust and some dark power that lures her in like nothing ever has.

She’s always been drawn straight to the dark.

_Resist it, Rey._

“A gift freely given can never be turned against the one to whom it has been gifted,” he informs her with a casualness that belies the savage energy radiating from him. “Surely your vaunted tutors taught you this?” His sarcastic query sends electric tingles skipping dangerously along her nerve endings.

The lighting is low, but she catches a flash of teeth as he shoves her thighs apart, his motions impatient and brusque.

He crushes her into the bed and mouths at her neck, grinding against her until she whimpers, but he only advances with inexorable determination until she hooks her ankles around his thighs to trap him in place. At the exquisite press of his arousal against her belly she whines, “Ben, please…”

“Ah. You want me to have it again? That _thing_ which you already gave me once before?”

His skin is burning hot, his breath on her neck a furnace blast, and he lifts his hips, impaling her and pinning her wrists to the bed until her head flings back at the sensation of being _taken_.

Her eyes catch him watching her greedily, and she knows at this moment, her every movement and gasp exists solely for his delight.

“This is mine, isn’t it, wife?”

“Yes…”

He rewards her with a firm pump his hips, a sinuous roll, so slow it feels like punishment. He releases his hold on her wrists so he can reach above them and cling to the headboard for leverage and grip a fistful of her hair with his other hand. 

Tentatively, she runs her hands over him, fascinated by the play of hard, hot muscle bearing down on her, by the scent of him, by the rough rasp of whiskers against her face as he bends to kiss her. The hot slide of his tongue thrusts in time to the heat of him stroking between her thighs.

He doesn’t stop kissing as her hands roam lower. The hair below his belly button is scruffy and soft, the warm flesh of his abdomen pulled taut over smooth, hard muscles under her fingertips.

“You see what you do to me?” he asks hoarsely, pulling out and wrapping her hand around his thick erection, his breath catching when her eyes meet his. He’s hard and his skin is silky-hot and slippery with her wetness.

He slips back inside with a low moan and guides her hand between them, so she can feel herself, slick and soft where they merge.

“You see what I do to you? How I make you so very wet?”

He pulls out again and she cries out at the loss, but he kisses his way down her chest, tonguing at her belly button. She vaguely realizes he intends to do that _thing_ again, that thing he did the first time he took her–

His tongue flicks over her sensitive flesh and he scuffs his chin against her, teasing.

“Rey, darling? Are you paying attention? We should make sure you know who owns this.”

Her eyes lock on his and she gasps when he sets his mouth on her. He takes a few sucking pulls at that tight bud between her legs and her thighs clamp around his head and she squeals when he pushes her knees apart and keeps going until she’s shamelessly quivering and begging for more.

“Ben, _please_ …I want…”

“I know what you want…”

_“Please.”_

Her hips arch again, seeking penetration.

With tortuous leisure, he licks his way wetly back up her belly before he finally plunders her mouth with a ravenous kiss. She can taste herself on his tongue.

“You see how delectable you are?” he asks, licking her mouth until she groans loudly against him. “It’s all for me, isn’t it?”

“Yes…”

His eyes sear into hers, and he thrusts into her savagely enough to rip a hoarse scream from her throat. Ruthlessly, he drags his palm between them, pressing low and hard on her belly.

“You can feel me, can’t you? Feel me…so deep in you…?” He pushes down and she cries out as hot ecstasy scrubs her mind clean of everything but him. “Nobody’s ever touched you…here…not even you… _just me_ …” He bites his lip and digs in harder.

“Ben,” she breathes, sinking her fingernails into the rigid muscles of his sweat-damp shoulders. He flexes his hips and bumps against her womb, and she sobs as fierce pleasure threatens to split her in half and swallow her whole.

“That spot, right there? You feel it?” He sounds demented, unstable. 

“…mmmhhhh, yes…”

“That’s mine, isn’t it?”

“Yes!”

“You already gave it to me, didn’t you, sweetheart?”

“… _yessss_ …”

“Yes,” he echoes, "yes, you did. Let's make sure you remember."

He snaps his hips and his eyes burn with that same unholy light.

“Now _scream_ for me.”

Wildfire uncoils around her, her entire being folding in on itself, an implosion of heat and violence and _him_ , and she surrenders to it, that clutching pull to the darkness.

She doesn’t even try to stop herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll know this is gonna get dark...right?


	15. An Ocean and An Island

# Chapter Fifteen – An Ocean and An Island 

Rey awakens to find herself somewhat crushed into the mattress. He fell asleep on top of her, his dark head resting on her chest. One heavily muscled thigh effectively traps her legs beneath him.

He wakes when she does, and a scowl crosses his brow when their gazes meet.

Every part of her from the waist down throbs with sensitivity. 

_I think you need a different lesson, my love._

He spent the better part of the night educating her on the specifics of just how utterly outclassed she is in the realm of sex, insisting her tutors on Jakku were likely clueless, virgin ascetics and it would benefit her to hearken to him and _only_ him from this point forward.

Then he made her submit to his wickedly pleasurable attentions and scream in ecstasy until her voice gave out. And she reveled in it, abandoning herself to him as easily as breathing.

Eventually, they collapsed into a daze, entangled in the messy sheets and each other, though in the cold light of day, Rey wonders if perhaps they became a bit carried away.

Kylo slowly pushes himself up and stretches out an arm to switch on her bedside lamp in the accompanying morning light, taking one look at her and cursing, “Gods _dammit_ to hell, don’t move.”

His tone is clipped and abrupt, so she obeys, waiting patiently for him to make his way to her bathing room before she evaluates the carnage for herself. Her thighs are painfully chafed, and an odd stickiness lingers between her legs.

He returns with a warm towel and a basin of water and begins to dab gently at the mess.

“Are you angry?”

“Yes,” he snaps curtly. He does not look at her face as he blots his towel over the new marks on her sore flesh.

The tenderness of his touch contradicts his gruff tone and she wants to ask him why. After all, it seems _she_ is the one bearing the brunt of physical punishment from their passion, and she doesn’t tremendously mind.

“Are you angry…with me?” she asks quietly.

His eyes flicker to hers in surprise, jaw flexing as if he’s weighing his words by rolling them on his tongue before he answers.

“No. I…I am angry with myself, sweetheart. I seem to have no self-control where you are concerned, and I truly wish I could find some. I fear your condition has crossed well over the line into scandalous territory, and I will not have the servants gossiping over it. Though I am sure they will once Phasma catches sight of you.”

He sighs heavily, and she lies still while he finishes his self-appointed task of cleaning her up. As he does it, she admires the handsome curl of dark hair over his forehead and tries to absorb his admission, knowing instinctively it gives her excellent leverage, despite the previous night’s so-called _lesson_.

“Next time I’ll shave before I come to you, sweetheart,” he mumbles, running a hand over his face, scruffy with whiskers and the obvious culprit of her current discomfort.

She tries for a joke and flirts, “Surely such a chore cannot be so bothersome as the procedures I must endure for _your_ preferences, milord.”

He grunts a halfhearted chuckle but has shuttered his expression so she cannot tell if her jest hits the intended mark.

In fact, he seems to be trying to close her out, a defensive measure she recognizes right away. She can feel it through their bond, a barrier he’s putting up so she cannot read him.

Automatically, she finds her center, a warm flame of light deep in her mind, relying on her rather recently neglected meditation abilities to bring herself a measure of composure. It comes effortlessly, a peace where she can _think_ , instead of jumbling through the rippling landscape of _his_ capricious emotions.

This is what she has trained for, and now she understands why she was encouraged to practice meditation at every opportunity.

So long as he is not bombarding her with his ever-seductive exhortations to give him whatever he wants, she is able to wrangle herself into a semblance of calm.

But. He’s trying to conceal his emotions, nonetheless, and it bewilders her.

She is no expert, but she is fairly certain they engaged in planet-shattering sex last night. Only now he’s _upset_.

The bed is a disaster, but he flips a sheet over her before removing the towel and basin to her bathing room.

_Don’t move from that bed, Omega._

At the sound of running water, she realizes he has stepped into the steam shower.

Never one to be ignored, she decides she suddenly needs to join him.

Abandoning her better instincts to stay put, she climbs out of bed. Rather shakily, true, but she will not be treated like an invalid.

In fact, she feels rather excellent.

Although, when she sees him standing nude under the steamy water, she has to force down the lump of desire creeping up the back of her throat.

Unlike when they bathed together, she now has an unobstructed view of every corded muscle, of how the width of his shoulders emphasizes the band of muscle around his hips, delineated by a sharp V that angles deliciously to his groin, of his calves and forearms dusted with dark hair and his abdominal muscles rippling under the soapy steam.

Their eyes catch, and again she senses his attempt to fortify himself against her. It is strange, knowing he wishes to hide his thoughts from her.

“You ought to be resting,” he states, scrubbing soap into his hair. His arms flex mesmerizingly as he works the soap into a lather. 

“I’m not tired,” she retorts, stepping in beside him.

He ducks his head under the spray, and soapy bubbles run down his magnificent physique.

She observes him quietly, realizing she has grown quite fond of the angel’s kisses scattered over his skin and the elegant brutality of his build, and how his size and physical power nearly overwhelm her in such stark proximity.

A particularly interesting trail of soap slips down his neck and over the slope of pectoral muscle, briefly catching on his nipple before continuing down. She can see her faint scratches his chest and the sight pleases her immeasurably.

_I marked you, too, husband. So there._

His wet hair, slicked back as it is, accentuates his handsome bone structure, the strong brow and high cheekbones sharply contrasting with those pillowy lips, a delightful combination of harsh and soft.

Those plush lips mold into a grim line and he pulls her under the spray, muttering, “Still so willful after my very best efforts, _hmmm_?”

She says nothing, glaring back with defiance, until his eyes soften.

He cups his hands around her shoulders, and she stands quietly under the marvel of hot, steamy water pounding against her while he soaps her hair and arms and very gently over the back of her neck and lower, at the apex of her thighs. She hisses when the soap stings and he lifts a brow as if daring her to complain. She keeps her mouth shut, knowing he ordered her to stay abed and she’s outright disobeying.

His expression swiftly turns impassive, but not before she catches the banked fire smoldering there.

“You want me,” she claims with bold assurance.

He takes a measured breath, his face carefully blank. “You’re still raw from the past few days. There’s not a chance in hell I’m touching you again until you’re healed. No. I’ll hurt you and you’ll never forgive me.”

Before realizing the significance of what she’s doing, she strokes a finger over the side of his neck, against his scent gland. He turns into her touch and sighs and flicks his rueful gaze over her.

“You really have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” he asks thickly.

“No idea.”

“You swear it?”

“…I swear,” she whispers, not entirely sure what he’s referring to.

Reluctantly, he pushes her hand aside so he can rinse her before turning off the spray and bundling her in a large towel from the warming rack, another unheard-of luxury.

He herds her back into her bedroom, takes one look at the wrecked sheets, and lifts her into his arms, striding to his rooms as regally as if he’s headed to dinner and not dripping wet and naked to boot.

When they arrive at his bedchamber, he shucks her towel and scrubs it over himself while she scrambles onto his bed and observes with avid interest. After her heat, the room and the bed smell like him and her now, too, a pleasant mingling of them both. She licks her lips, abandoning her shyness for once.

Her scent grows wild, heated, and when his eyes burn into hers, she parts her legs and gives him her most encouraging smile…and this is all the invitation he needs.

* * *

“Do you believe the Omicrons have a secret captain? To whom they are loyal above all others, even you?”

“You’re trying to distract me, and it won’t work, my love, as I have already plotted my next twelve moves,” Kylo mutters, bent over the Dejarik board and staring at it with more intensity than his securely fixed position requires.

Rey pulls her grin into a somber expression and replies with honeyed sarcasm, “Oh! I wouldn’t presume to distract _Kylo Ren, Supreme Leader and Dejarik Grandmaster._ ”

His amber eyes flash to hers, brimming with humor, and he leans back, taking a leisurely sip of wine from their shared goblet.

He insisted on registering their first game using their _official_ titles, so anyone in the galaxy who cares to view it can wager on the outcome. If nothing else, the game will likely be watched in the gaming hells throughout the known realms simply for Kylo’s notoriety as Supreme Leader, not to mention his well-established status as something of an expert.

And perhaps he also hopes his uncle will hear of it and take an interest, though he knows viewers’ and players’ locations cannot be tracked.

Still, some spiteful part of him wants Luke to see how much better he’s grown as a strategist and remind Skywalker their old game is still left with Kylo’s knife pointed at his uncle’s metaphorical throat.

Dejarik matches between registered players can be viewed by anyone with a board, and Kylo is well aware his old game with Luke still holds odds in most of the gambling dens in Coruscant and elsewhere.

He returns his attention to the current match. He is so well positioned, he wonders if he ought to err deliberately and give poor Rey a fighting chance and prolong their bout. Because he’s actually having _fun_.

But he immediately discards his initial inclination to mismove a piece. If Luke is watching, Kylo does not care to weaken his standing. And he is struck by a bizarre competitiveness, pitting himself against his wife.

She is registered simply as _The Golden Blood Scavenger_ , _unmatched_ , having taken for her sigil a hastily sketched carrion bird styled after the steelpeckers on Jakku, which she input into the board, along with the requisite drop of blood to identify herself.

Kylo, of course, is represented by the Black Sun of the House of Ren.

All Dejarik boards are programmed so only the registered player may enter his moves and each play must be certified by a drop of blood, which makes it nearly impossible to cheat or interfere with a game. Famous games between Grandmasters have been known to last for years and are often studied intensively by Dejarik enthusiasts and scholars alike.

Some of the more intricate gambits can take months, even years to develop, and in the event of a player’s death, a deceased player’s position may even be passed down to an heir.

“Have _you_ ever gone hungry, my lord?” Rey asks, taking a sip of wine from the goblet he passes to her.

Firelight flickers over her and she’s so beautiful in this moment, his breath catches before he banters truthfully, “Gods, no. Never deliberately, at least.”

She hums, contemplative, and takes another sip.

Kylo senses she is still vaguely hurt over Canady’s insults and briefly wishes he could resurrect the man so he might murder him all over again.

However, Rey seems to have taken the insult and molded it into her own personal symbol of triumph, turning Canady's ugly words into an honest confrontation of her humble origins. Instead of attempting to deny the truth, she has re-shaped it into a strength.

_A scavenger bird. It almost suits her, though perhaps we shall have to find something a touch more regal for official functions._

Kylo admires her unwillingness to crumble under the first sign of vicious court politics, knowing she will likely be exposed to more, though probably none so blatant as Canady's by anyone who does not desire to follow in his unfortunate footsteps.

Yes, Rey will do just fine and hold her own amongst his courtiers, and he finds himself rather proud of her.

 _She is magnificent,_ he thinks, followed quickly by, _I would have her again._

Distracted, he tries to compose himself, since he has vowed not to touch her until some of her worse marks have healed. And she’s truly wrung him dry after the past few days.

He is sure his clothes hang more loosely on his frame and his cheeks have developed hollows to match the shadows of exhaustion under his eyes, common symptoms after a hard rut, he knows. And though, after the morning’s last sexual encounter, he did nothing more strenuous than meet with his war council while Rey took a very long nap, he is still bordering on extreme fatigue.

At dinner Rey assured him if they _only_ sleep this evening, it will be fine with her. He suggested a game of Dejarik to pass the time until then, and she clapped her hands enthusiastically and rallied a small measure of energy.

She ponders the board, seemingly in no hurry to move, and Kylo studies her surreptitiously. Her opening plays were too tentative and eccentric, though some moves she executed well in classic form, first establishing her General’s battalion before advancing a small preemptive strike at his flanks.

Finally, she moves into a _Bishop’s Hold_ and looks up with expectant glee sparkling in her pretty hazel eyes. This is not a move to make before they’ve reached midgame and he shakes his head.

“We need not play an entire game in a single evening, sweetheart,” he murmurs, tracing his gaze over her curled in the chair opposite him.

“I know,” she says. “But the game will be over soon enough.”

He analyzes the board and does a double-take as his confident smirk slides from his face. He cannot help but glance up to her in shock before turning his full attention back to the game.

_What in the name of Zeus’s bloody knot?_

He has no choice but to block her hold and try to maneuver around it, but she slips away. Too easily.

Suddenly, she’s _slaughtering_ him, relentlessly blocking his armies and ruining his positions with such sly ruthlessness, he’s having trouble reigning in his temper. Part of him is impressed, but if he isn’t careful, she’s going to annihilate him, and the game has barely started.

_Who in the hell taught her to play?_

Unless Kylo manages to find a way under her defenses, he’s already lost.

“You may concede gracefully,” she quips, “or I shall continue to rain destruction upon you until there is nothing left.”

The gleam in her eyes is so smugly satisfactory, Kylo cannot help but bark a laugh and nod contritely, surrendering with good sport.

_Saucy minx._

“Very well. I see I must reconsider my strategy next time. I underestimated you, my dear. A mistake I shall not make again.”

Her cheeky grin salves the sting of losing so spectacularly. She is an unmatched, unrated player. Half the gamblers from Coruscant to the outer reaches are most certainly cursing his name over the credits they’ve inevitably just lost for betting on him.

“When next we meet on the board, I’m going to massacre you,” he grumbles, and her smile grows wider yet. “But for now, we ought to get some sleep, my darling.”

He stretches out his hand in invitation, and she takes it willingly enough, which soothes his ego a bit. At dinner, he decided he was unwilling to forego her company for the evening and insisted she shares his bed from now on.

She clambers to the middle of it, dressing gown and all, and it brings a curious warmth to his chest, seeing her propped against his pillows. Where she belongs.

He dims the lights until only a flicker of firelight filters through the bedcurtains, which he draws around them.

He removes his shirt, wearing only loose-fitting sleep trousers since he tends to run warm when he sleeps, as most Alphas do. He prefers to sleep naked, but…

_It won’t hurt to have another barrier between us. To prevent temptation._

She’s already pushing under the covers and it occurs to him he’s never in his life had a woman in his bed with whom he didn’t intend to immediately engage in intercourse.

He slips in beside her and she curls against his chest as naturally as if she’s been doing it forever.

 _She’s been terribly lonely,_ he realizes, tucking her close and cupping her hip in his palm.

_Mine._

“Might we talk for a while? Sometimes sleep is difficult to find.” Her voice has grown quiet in the soft lighting, only the crackle of embers in the fireplace and whisper of her feet sliding against the coolness of the sheets, in obvious enjoyment of the luxurious texture. 

_My sensuous little thing. You shall have only the finest of silks and velvets to touch your skin from now on._

He strokes her hair from the back of her neck so he might view the marks healing there. The bites will fade to a silvery-white, and he knows her bruises are already diminishing under the diligent application of bacta ointment. Phasma insisted on applying the stuff at every opportunity throughout the day, according to Rey.

“How did you occupy the rest of your day while I convened with my advisors?” he asks, casting about for a topic of conversation that might lure them to sleep.

“Oh, I read some more after my nap, and Phasma escorted me to a private courtyard and the orangery for a change of scenery. It’s lovely there. I wonder if I might go there to read?”

“I trust she had several guards along?” He will not have her wandering the palace until she knows her way and he is assured she won’t try to run off.

“She did.”

“So long as you are properly chaperoned, I see no reason why you might not visit whenever you wish.”

Rey sighs, “Is there no other purpose for me here? No task I might be assigned other than…?"

She drifts off in awkward silence, and it occurs to him he made it _quite_ clear his only expectation of her is to await his pleasure and bear him an heir.

But, she’s an active, intelligent girl and she will grow bored and unhappy in short order if she has nothing else meaningful to fill her time.

He feels a momentary internal shock when he blurts out impulsively, “Perhaps you would like a project, then? We might host a ball to celebrate our wedding? Introduce you to the greater members of the nobility?”

“A ball?” she asks, but her voice sinks. “I’m afraid I know little of such things.”

He shifts, uncomfortably aware that her life with the monks and the Caretakers on Jakku would not have exposed her to such glamorous events. It takes a minute for him to realize he’s actually experiencing a sort of lingering guilt for sweeping her into a life she did not plan for.

“Well,” he blusters, “I just witnessed a very intelligent young lady thoroughly trounce me, an expert at one of the more difficult games of strategy in existence. I think you might be up to the task, so long as you have proper assistance.”

“Really?” she breathes. “You would charge me with such a considerable assignment?”

She sounds heartbreakingly eager, and his own pulse quickens at the catch in her voice.

_It’s this damned bond, twisting me around, and it’s too late to withdraw my suggestion. I’ll disappoint her and that would be even worse._

“You are a princess, now, Rey. Of course, you will need to learn the functions of the court and the management of certain elements of our household. I would have you do it if you are willing and brave enough for the challenge.”

She grows still in his arms, and he senses his words have struck an uneasy chord in her, though he does not know why. Once again, he feels the discomfiting vulnerability that always accompanies the inescapable pull to her.

“Only, I don’t know how to dance, my lord, and I fear I shall embarrass myself and you.”

“Well of course you don’t know how to dance,” he growls, again furious with himself for forgetting her modest upbringing and inadvertently humiliating her by reminding her of it. “But you are certainly fit to learn, are you not?”

“I suppose I am,” she allows.

“Good. The more I think on it, the more I wish my wife to learn dancing and to plan our wedding ball. Perhaps in time for the Hosnian Equinox?”

The planting season will soon commence for the galaxy’s major agrarian-based systems, and it might tie in nicely with a fertility theme.

Perhaps by then they will know if she’s carrying his child.

“Mitaka can teach you the dancing and he and Phasma shall assist you with planning.”

“Will _you_ not instruct me, my lord?”

“I’m afraid I shall have plenty else to engage me. The galaxy is still under martial law, sweetheart, and I have been neglecting my war council, not that I will complain as to why I’ve been so distracted.”

He kisses her hair so she does not take offense, though some part of him knows placing some distance between him and the object of his increasing obsession will be wise. Besides, he will be particularly busy now that Canady is gone.

“I find I am suddenly too overwhelmed to sleep, my lord,” she whispers, nuzzling under his arm where his scent is stronger.

Tingling heat spills through him, as he knows she’s instinctively seeking comfort. From him. No one has ever done such a thing before. 

“I thought we discussed my preference for you to address me less formally in private quarters?”

“Ben. I do not think I can sleep for excitement.”

_Gods. I adore the way you say my name._

A silkiness falls around them, entrancing and seductive, and he pulls it into himself with hardly any thought at all, as if he’s taking on an ancient role, more intuitive than logical.

_Ah. Compulsion._

Once he recognizes the force and depth of it, a heady power fills him as if he’s imbibed too much strong wine.

He’s employed compulsion before, of course. Many times.

But with _her_ , it slides into him so easily, so fluently.

His darling girl needs to sleep.

“Look at me.”

She does, and he wonders if she has any idea compulsion can flow both ways. It is a tightly guarded secret among the Sith Order and one he’s almost let slip at least once over the past few days.

He wrestles control firmly into his hand and holds her stare.

“Look at me,” he says again, and she relaxes into him. “I would share my island with you. It helps me to sleep.”

“Your _island_? Is _that_ what you’re calling it now?” She giggles and snorts so adorably, he bites back an urge to swallow her whole. 

“Hush, you _saucy_ vixen,” he chuckles.

“Sorry!”

“Now. Look at me. You imagine…an ocean.”

“An ocean?”

_Dammit, she’s likely never seen one._

Without thinking, he pulls a memory from deep in his mind, a rare, long-ago adventure, and wills her to see it.

“Imagine…instead of sand all around and rippling dunes and hot desert wind, you find only water in every direction, endless, all around you in waves. Can you see it?”

“Yes…”

“And set amongst this vast, endless ocean, you see an island, a jewel of land, green and lush. Thriving. Birds in the skies, warm-blooded creatures to burrow in the ground, and all around you the ever-moving sea, filled with the most astonishing creatures who live under the waves. It sings to you, this ocean, a steady rush of waves over sandy shores. You see it, there in your mind’s eye?”

“…yes…”

Their breathing and heartbeats synchronize, and he sinks deeper into her gaze, reciting an ancient, ancient poem.

When he is done, he murmurs, “Do you feel the warm sun on your skin? The cool, salty breeze in the air? The tickle of waves caressing your bare ankles?”

“Yes, and I hear a dog barking,” she whispers faintly.

He kisses the top of her head, sudden melancholy swamping him, constricting his throat in tight, hot swells.

“Then all you needs do is close your eyes, my love, and you will sleep, warm and safe and free of care.”

She’s drifted off, snuffling against his chest before obediently falling into an enchanted sleep.

He watches her, bemused and captivated by what he has done.

Her soft curves mold bonelessly against him, warmed with her sweetly flavored blood which beckons him with nearly irresistible appeal.

_I ought to show you how it’s done and enslave you to me for all eternity._

As he watches her breathe, an odd foreboding seeps into him.

Suddenly tired, he tries to fortify himself against her allure.

He tries to find his center of focus, that old, familiar cold seed of darkness in the bottom of his gut, smooth and polished hard and black as the pit of a starless night.

But for the first time in many years, he is unable to grasp it, and his heart surges with a vague dread.

_I have not attended church for many weeks, nor practiced my meditation for days._

The Church inevitably requires its portion, and Snoke will surely demand an accounting when next they meet. And it will need to be soon. Regular attendance is not optional, it is mandatory. 

_I must needs beg the High Church for additional military fortifications, anyhow._

_The High Priest will certainly insist on penance if he finds out how close I came to-_

The softest little moan distracts him, and he automatically pulls her close with an answering rumble until her expression relaxes into peace once again.

_My Omega. Sweet and soft and pretty. And mine._

He decides to worry about penance and meditation in the morning, once again diverted and somewhat mesmerized by how easily he compelled her into sleep.

 _I’ve never done that before_ , he thinks. And then he drifts off to join her on their island. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goddangit ya'll. I need to say this right now: HOLY CRAP-OLY! What an amazing response I've had so far to this little tale. I am utterly floored, amazed, thrilled, and inspired by every single one of you. 
> 
> I am committing myself to doing my very best to keep up on your replies, which, by the way, I'm a total whore for, so keep them coming please because oh my gosh that is like payday for me only without the taxes, so it's awesome. 
> 
> As for the incoming darkness I've been warning you about, my plan is to have us all sitting like live frogs in a kettle so when I slowly turn up the temperature, we don't even know we're being boiled in it. 
> 
> Does that make sense? I don't know if that makes sense. I'm feeling morbid over here listening to the GOT soundtrack and drinking low-to-mid-shelf blended scotch, so...
> 
> Anyhow, the poem Kylo recites is called _By The Sea_ , by the peerless Emily Dickinson, who had never seen the ocean before, just like Rey. 
> 
> The interpretation is best done [here](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/69411/emily-dickinson-i-started-early-took-my-dog-), and I heartily encourage anyone who loves poetry to check it out. It seemed a perfect poem for me to have at the back of my mind for this chapter. 
> 
> Perhaps Kylo selected this piece subconsciously, since the Sea, or the masculine stranger, threatens to consume the narrator before retreating again, just as Kylo is constantly tempted to do to Rey as his heart grows more susceptible to her charms. 
> 
> I sort of have this head canon that our dear God of Death secretly loves very ancient poetry…


	16. Death By A Thousand Cuts

# Chapter Sixteen - Death By A Thousand Cuts

If not for the general pall of her mission overshadowing the next weeks, Rey would be having the time of her life. Much of her cobbled-together education was based purely on theory, and she finds it quite stimulating to apply what she has learned.

While she awaits a sign from the Phoenix, now is the best time to reconnoiter and gather intelligence, even if Kylo limits her exposure to his court or any information regarding the movements of his armies or his ventures to destroy the Resistance.

However, though he remains frustratingly tight-lipped in regards to his military endeavors, Rey still learns a great deal about the workings of the royal household and the many people who help to run it. She is never left unchaperoned, nor is she allowed to roam freely about the palace, but she does her best to remain alert and ingratiate herself where she can.

Despite the restrictions he imposes, Kylo does as promised and assigns his body servant, the solemn-eyed Mitaka, to give her dancing lessons and to assist her with planning the upcoming Equinox Ball.

To her pleasant surprise, Mitaka, when not under the shadow of his master’s formidable personality, is an engaging, humorous young man. He is close to Rey’s age and is comfortable enough in her exalted presence to forego the extreme formality with which she is treated by every other individual in the palace, excepting Phasma and her husband, of course.

Without fail, Mitaka meets her every morning in the small ballroom after breakfast. At this time of day the room’s lighting is ideal, Mitaka assures her, since the morning sun falls on the sparkling marble floor to imitate the Great Hall’s magical one, which makes for good practice conditions.

He demonstrates each day’s lesson with kind forbearance she is unused to. Her past tutors were much stricter. She is a fast learner, but her feet often have trouble keeping pace with her whirling thoughts.

“I’ll never learn it all in time. I’ll fall on my face before the entire court and make a fool of myself!”

“My lady, I beg you do not say such dreadful things,” Mitaka smiles. “If I am to fail in my task, I would not enjoy my master’s wrath.”

“Wrath? Surely not. He’s a lamb,” she argues, and they snicker together.

“Who’s a lamb?” A deep voice that never ceases to send shivers down her spine interrupts their mild laughter.

“Why, you are, my lord!” she exclaims, skipping across the floor to greet him.

She is certain her heart will pound through her ribs at the sight of him in his austere uniform with his hand outstretched so invitingly. As always, Kylo is achingly handsome, his dark eyes flashing with reserved humor as she dips into a curtsy, less ungainly than it was last week, but still in some need of improvement.

“Gods, Mitaka, must I reprimand you for wasting these lessons mocking me when her ladyship doesn’t yet know how to properly curtsy?” he grumbles good-naturedly.

“That, my lord, was never part of my assignment.” Mitaka, regardless of his deferential nature, has no shortage of backbone. Rey supposes he needs it, being employed by someone like Kylo Ren.

Kylo lifts her gracefully from her bow and his stern expression softens.

“Perhaps you would walk with me before we proceed with our respective days?”

An appearance from Kylo at this time of day is rare indeed, and Rey is eager to spend a few minutes with him.

She calls over her shoulder, “Mitaka, I will meet with you and Phasma at luncheon to discuss the music, and then we must get to work on finalizing the menu.”

“Yes, my lady. I look forward to it,” Mitaka replies with a gracious genuflect.

“Do you not have audiences to hear or military councils to direct this morning, my lord?” Rey asks as Kylo escorts her down a corridor.

“I have a few moments to spare,” he replies cryptically.

This answer intrigues her, as he’s been solidly busy for weeks. In fact, since Canady’s execution and their subsequent Dejarik match, he wakes early each day to attend his devotions at Church, well before the morning light. After this, Rey knows he returns to the palace to convene his war council, even before she wakes, and she usually does not meet with him again until well into the evening.

Despite this, if she did not know better, she would believe her husband is _courting_ her.

Every day she finds little gifts on her pillows, perhaps a perfect fruit from the orangery or a book from her library with some passage or poem marked by a slip of ribbon.

Just yesterday, he left her a note to meet him after her dancing lesson in the small antechamber behind the throne.

As instructed and with intense expectation, she asked Mitaka to escort her there. On the way, Mitaka explained the chamber is used for one to adjust his appearance or ensure his uniform is properly set before accessing the throne on the dais in the Great Hall. He said his lordship intended to hold an audience for the commoners that day, and they were already lining up and eager to bring their appeals before him.

In the tiny closet of a room, she found Kylo alone, running a comb through his hair and adjusting the dashing drape of his cape. He waited until Mitaka shut them in together before asking after her health, and she blushed crimson at his question, knowing he was _really_ asking if he’d made love to her too roughly the night before.

She stuttered she was feeling just fine, and he pushed her against the door and rucked up her skirts, demanding he would see for himself. And then he kissed her with enough ardor to make her head spin while he oh-so-gently pushed a long finger between her legs, whispering he would collect her scent on his hand and carry it with him through the interminably boring day ahead.

A sharp rap at the door prevented anything more than a hasty, passionate kiss and his briefly lewd caress, but the encounter was enough to leave her thoroughly distracted for the remainder of the day.

But it had been very, very late when he returned to her last night, and she was already deep asleep when he climbed into bed and pulled her against him, his warm breath fanning over her neck and large hands gently gripping her close as she drifted back to sleep.

“If I were not assured Mitaka enjoys the romantic company of other men, I might admit I would find myself quite jealous of all the time you two spend together.”

Rey shakes her head. “Mitaka is a lovely person, but you need not fear I will lose my head over him, my lord. He is not…”

“…is not what?”

“He is not you,” she says simply.

He hums, a low rumble from his chest, and Rey wonders if there will ever be a day when she will not want to jump into his arms and kiss his pretty mouth until she’s breathless.

“I have a surprise for you, my love, and I wanted to give it to you personally.”

Her heartbeat kicks up. Perhaps he has decided to let her have Rose again. Rey has been reluctant to mention her, not wanting to draw attention to the maid and bring unwanted scrutiny upon her.

“A surprise?”

“Yes. It occurred to me this morning at Church.”

A faint chill creeps into her at his mention of Church.

After their wedding, the High Priest demanded Kylo resume regular attendance, and so he rises quite early to accommodate Snoke and leave room in his packed schedule for his other duties as Supreme Leader. Rey cannot fault his devotion, and in fact she thinks his self-discipline is quite admirable. 

Yet, she senses an indistinct, sinister aura around her husband's religious practices, which he insists are secret to the Sith Order and not to be discussed or shared with outsiders, including her. After her initial inquiry, she avoids the topic, since he grows cool and shuttered whenever it comes up.

As a declared acolyte of the Jedi path and now mated, any expectations of spiritual devotion for Rey are significantly more relaxed; however, although she is not required to carry out strict daily rituals as Kylo apparently is, she’s been finding moments to practice her own meditations in the orangery, where the air is scented with plants and greenery, fresh in comparison to the relative stench of Coruscant.

The orangery has become a favorite place, somewhere she can enjoy the atmosphere because it is generally much warmer here than the rest of the palace. It reminds her of Jakku, though without the harsh winds and relentless scrub of sand against her skin.

Kylo leads her halfway down a corridor before she reminds herself to pay attention, particularly when he turns to a panel in the wall and pushes it open to reveal a stone tunnel. She has not been allowed to venture into the tunnels, and she instinctively memorizes their location.

“Where in the worlds are you taking me?”

“It’s a surprise,” he murmurs without explanation.

Her training takes over and she begins counting steps, noting how the floor slopes downward at an unexpectedly steep angle until the path forks in several directions.

They turn onto another path illuminated by reddish lights set into the floor. The walls are the same rough-hewn stone as the tunnels Rey glimpsed beyond the panel in her bedchamber, and she realizes they are making their way beneath the palace.

They do not go too far before she smells food cooking.

“The kitchens?” she asks, unable to contain her curiosity.

“Near there, as a matter of fact.”

Mystified, she quickens her pace.

They arrive at a door, and a guard awaits them. He holds something she first mistakes to be a furred creature of some kind. When Kylo takes the thing in hand and shakes it out, holding it open, Rey realizes it is a coat meant for her to wear, though the tunnels are almost cloyingly warm.

“I know you’ve never left Jakku before I found you, so I thought you might like to see the ice room.”

“Ice room?” Rey slips her arms into the coat and cannot help but stroke her hands over the incredible luxury, almost unbearably soft against her skin.

“It’s where they make the ice cream.”

“Ice cream?” Her voice perks up. This sounds interesting.

He chuckles and the guard opens the door at a nod from Kylo.

And Rey steps into a different world.

It is frigidly cold here, surely as freezing as outer space. The walls appear frosty, made from a strange, hard rock she cannot immediately identify. She reaches to touch it and thinks it must be ice, though she’s never seen it before, only read of it.

She gasps at the cold against her fingertips, and her breath forms mist in the air.

“Frozen water? All of this?”

“All of this. Come.” Kylo grins until his eyes crinkle at the corners with obvious amusement, and he beckons her further inside.

She is suddenly quite glad for the warmth of her coat as they make their way deeper into the cavernous room. The tip of her nose tingles with cold and she shivers.

The light is dim, and Rey notes shelves built into the walls, filled with crocks and wrapped packages, stacked all the way to the high ceiling.

“Oh!” she exclaims, unable to find proper words to convey her wonder.

_So much food – even more than Plutt’s rations stash._

There must be enough here to sustain a scavenger girl on Jakku for several lifetimes.

Fascinated by the way their breath forms lovely, swirling wisps, Rey finally remembers to ask, “But what is ice cream?”

Despite the chill, Kylo is warmed to the core over Rey’s excited exclamations at her first taste of ice cream and her declaration they must serve it for dinner every night and most certainly at the feast for the upcoming ball.

Neither does he miss how she continuously strokes her fingertips over the fur he’s gifted her, nor the sweetness of her tongue when he bends to capture her mouth for a languid kiss before promising he will come to her early this evening for a change.

When he suggests another game of Dejarik, her eyes darken and flare with heat and he finds it next to impossible to resist the urge to haul her immediately back to his rooms for an encore recital of her delightful little moans, only made over him instead of the ice cream.

After he cornered her yesterday in the dressing chamber behind the throne, he endured the most pleasurable of self-inflicted torments for the remainder of the day.

He meant to hold a royal audience in the style of his grandfather, having resurrected the tradition shortly after assuming the role of Supreme Leader. The common people are always willing to present even the simplest of petitions before the throne, though they are warned to keep their requests brief or not all will be heard. Still, supplicants queue to the very foot of the palace steps for a chance to submit their appeals.

But yesterday, Kylo could only listen halfheartedly, as his mind was utterly distracted by the scent of _her_ on his fingers. Several times, he almost lurched up and declared his audience ended before everyone had their turn. The only thing stopping him was the ambiguous worry Rey would somehow hear of his dereliction and chastise him for it. No. Duty required him to hear each entreaty, and he grudgingly forced himself to sit through every one, late into the evening.

By the time he came to bed, and as tempted as he was to wake her with kisses and sate himself, he realized the long day had utterly exhausted her, as well.

He knew he, too, should find a measure of rest, particularly since his early morning forays to Church have yet to result in a final determination from the High Priest over what exactly his penance ought to be.

Snoke has been hinting he intends to consult directly with His Holiness on the matter, and anything required in the way of atonement assigned by _Him_ will be comprehensively unpleasant. 

So Kylo takes deliberate care to leave this afternoon free. Though he knows he can demand for Rey to attend him instantly, he also knows she is currently shut in with Mitaka and Phasma discussing the menu for the feast.

He will not detract her from the task she has taken on so eagerly.

She truly seems to enjoy the project, and Kylo congratulates himself on finding something engaging to occupy her time, reinforcing his hunch she will only be bored to tears if her singular role is to await his beck and call.

However, he will not have her moving freely among his courtiers until he is assured she can navigate those waters on her own, nor is he willing to allow her free reign of the palace grounds without the accompaniment of at least several Omicrons, although he wishes her to have a sense of relative freedom.

Within reason, of course. 

So instead of demanding she abandon her work and come to him, he decides anticipation only adds savor to the meal.

Unused to having more than a few spare minutes to himself, he wanders somewhat aimlessly while he waits, perusing her rooms with curiosity.

He does not know if she is a naturally tidy person since the servants keep her rooms orderly, but he discovers a slipper under the chaise in her sitting room and a loose ribbon on the floor in the library from a book he’d left for her that day.

He suspects she is a bit chaotic in her daily living habits if left to her own devices, and he decides he rather likes the idea.

Quite a contrast from her brutally strategic mind.

_I would enlist her to aid me in bringing the Resistance to heel if I did not believe she still holds some sympathy for them._

_That stubborn loyalty is but_ _a remnant of her solitary upbringing._

Not for the first time, he wonders how one might live one’s entire life without knowing what an ocean looks like or without tasting a commonplace treat such as ice cream and then believing it to be the pinnacle of extravagance.

He returns to his apartments and shaves his face and re-sets the Dejarik board by his fireside. Then he calls a servant from the kitchens and delivers instructions to send something especially delightful for their dinner, to be served privately in his rooms that evening and to definitely include ice cream.

The ice cream is what does it, the thing that _almost_ tempts her into telling him everything.

She observes him contemplate the Dejarik board with significantly more wariness than the first time they played, and she knows this game will go on much longer than the first one, though she will still demolish him.

But it’s fun to watch him try.

Instead of dining formally in court, he ordered an early dinner to his rooms and invited her to join him in another game of Dejarik before they retire…and she cannot bear the sweet expectancy of what comes after.

If she is honest, she’s been terribly exhausted lately, and tomorrow promises to be exceptionally busy with final fittings for her ballgown and overseeing preparations for decorating the Great Hall.

But he had ice cream served for dessert, just for her, and gave her a lovely fur coat which now rests conspicuously over the foot of his bed. Perhaps he has plans for the fur and for her just as soon as their game comes to a good breaking point.

Suddenly, she wonders if she just tells him everything, all of it, why she’s here and how she came to be here…if he would just…believe her.

“You ought to watch your vanguard, my love,” he tuts, “far too exposed from the main.”

He’s playing _Death By_ _a Thousand Cuts,_ and she knows the move all too well. Nevertheless, she keeps her expression neutral, all part of the game.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she murmurs, making a move he obviously does not expect, if his consternation means anything. She cannot help but gloat, knowing she’s confounded him again. “Did you never learn, my lord?”

“Learn what, my darling?”

She grins and decides now is a good time to tease, “Learn the stories of the gods, of course, and of the fearsome Hades and his Persephone…” She moves into a gambit without a name and sings, “…it was always Persephone who was feared more than Hades, according to _my_ tutors…”

His nostrils flare and his luscious mouth presses into a thin line when he sees how she's thwarted him.

“Wily _bitch_ …” he curses good-humoredly under his breath. “Who in the hell taught you to play? I must know. I _insist_.”

His eyes bore into hers and for the briefest moment, she almost tells him everything.

Everything.

But she cannot, so she imparts a little, a tiny, insignificant piece of nothing to appease his curiosity and buy herself a bit more of this addictive repartee.

“I learned well what it is to want something more than food, my lord. On Jakku, I would go hungry and save my portions until I could pay the fee and learn from an old Dejarik master in Niima.”

He shakes his head. “What master would take food from the mouth of a child over a game?”

“Just some old autocrat by the name of Lor San Tekka,” she laughs. “I’m sure he had a scheme set with the rations master, Plutt, to…my lord?”

She pauses. Kylo has frozen in place, eyes locked on her with an alarming, raptor-like stare. Suddenly all the air in the room seems to have been sucked out.

“What…?” His question is interrupted by a knock at the bedchamber door. His eyes have gone flat and impossible to read as he calls, “Enter!”

Mitaka hurries in and informs his lordship the High Priest demands an immediate audience, then bows out again.

Kylo turns and stares at Rey for a full minute before he stands and gives the board a final, incredulous once-over, his face an unreadable mask.

“I must go. I know not when I shall return. In the meantime, you are not to leave the royal apartments during my absence. Is that understood?”

All signs of affection or warmth have evaporated, and she can only nod in bewilderment as he storms away, leaving her decidedly confused and lightly terrified.

What in the name of the gods caused his mood to turn so? And what in the hell did he mean he did not know when he would return?

It’s an entire week before she sees him again, and she’s grown increasingly terrified of his fury and worried he will miss the ball altogether, scheduled for the next week.

_When he finds out what happened in the tunnels, he’ll be furious..._

But when she sees him, she cannot seem to focus on anything but his haggard appearance.

She is already at the high table, dining in court as she has been all week, when he takes his seat beside her.

“I thought I ordered you to remain within the royal apartments,” he hisses, flicking a pristine square of linen over his lap and ignoring eye contact with everyone in the dining hall.

Rey almost snaps a rude reply, but…something is _off_ with him, so instead she merely shrugs and replies, “I assumed the dining hall and palace were part of the royal quarters, my lord.”

Other than that brief skirmish in the tunnels, she’s remained perfectly in bounds. Perhaps she can play it off as a misunderstanding.

She glances over him again. Although he’s immaculately groomed, he’s lost a noticeable amount of weight. His coat hangs over the broad frame of his shoulders, his cheekbones starkly prominent over the hollows beneath.

But his manners are impeccable as always. He waits for the lower court to taste their food, then Rey, before quietly uttering, “You look quite lovely, my dear. I’ve rather missed the sight of you this past week.”

His pallor accents the unnatural tint of color over his cheeks, enough to indicate he might be feverish. And the dull glow in his eyes makes them appear as empty pits. In fact, he looks as if all his energy is sapped. That crackling life force always threatening to burst forth unexpectedly has been diminished, somehow.

“My lord, are you all right?” Rey finally asks, uncaring if her question is too bold for the dinner table.

At her query, his heavy brow furrows, then he takes her hand with the same exquisite etiquette he always deploys.

“Of course, my love. Quite.” But his lips are pale and cold when they brush over her skin.

“My lord!” she exclaims, sudden worry mixing with the familiar flurry of arousal whenever he touches her.

But, something is dreadfully wrong. She’s never seen him like this before.

“Are you quite sure?” she murmurs more quietly when he ignores his turn to begin eating.

“Yes. Just…a tiring week.”

She wants to ask what happened, why he is like this, but she senses it would be met with further disapproval, and she already knows he is upset with her.

“Are you not hungry?” she asks. He hasn’t touched a bite. 

He slouches, and her heart pricks with alarm, having never seen him carry himself with anything less than excellent posture.

Rey finds herself at a loss for appetite, her concern increasing evermore when he coughs discreetly, then asks, “How are your plans proceeding with the ball, my dear?”

He seems to wish her to drop the subject of his obvious poor condition, and so she turns her half-hearted attention to her dinner, unable to fully concentrate on anything but the sickly exhaustion emanating from him.

The court’s eyes follow their movements, and though they cannot hear the low-voiced conversation at the high table, Rey chatters away for their benefit, giving him nonsensical details, unsure if he’s listening but doing her best to appear as if everything is fine.

Kylo makes the proper replies and nods agreeably at her suggestions. She astutely avoids the topic of her escapade in the tunnels and sincerely hopes she might be fortunate enough to have him forget it entirely.

But any fear of reprimand for her misadventures dissipates at his next words, whispered so gently she barely hears him.

“I fear I shall need to retire early, my lady.”

His color has heightened alarmingly, and she presses the back of her hand to his forehead, uncaring of who might be watching.

“Gods, Ben, you’re burning up. You’re ill?” she demands, looking into his eyes in search of the truth.

“I…think perhaps, yes,” he replies. His eyes glitter with a hint of force, however. “Though I would not have everyone in the gods-be-damned court think so. It would not do…not be _appropriate_ for anyone to connect my indisposition with my fresh return from a week at Church.”

Rey nods, understanding immediately.

She stands when he does and though he does not waver, he grips her hand until his knuckles turn white, crushing her fingers.

“Make our excuses to the court, would you?” he bids with quiet authority to the general seated on his other side, before leading Rey from the dining hall. His Knights, awaiting in the corridor, fall into line behind them.

They make it to the small gallery, thankfully empty but for the ever-present Omicrons, before he falters and weaves against her.

She almost shouts for help, but two of his Knights rush forward to catch an arm under each of his shoulders.

“What in the name of Zeus is wrong with him?” she cries, hurrying behind as they bear him to the royal apartments.

“Not here,” one of the Knights grunts and Rey would snap at him to mind his manners but for her overwhelming concern for her husband.

By the time they reach his room, Kylo’s eyes are nearly rolling back in his head. They lie him on his bed and Rey scrambles across the mattress, kneeling at his side. He searches faces until he finds her and reaches to clasp her hand, but weakly.

A Knight appears at his bedside and Rey orders him to send for a physician, but he replies quietly, “I know what to do. You ought not to be here, my lady.”

“She stays.” Kylo has not yet succumbed to a faint, but he looks deathly pale and a fine sheen of sweat covers his forehead.

“My lord,” another Knight steps forward to argue, “she cannot see it. It is against the laws.”

“What?” Rey shouts, incredulous. “I’m _not_ leaving him. No!”

Another Knight steps forth. “My lord, you know the laws. She _must_ wait outside.”

Rey turns to Kylo and clasps his clammy hand in both of hers.

His inky dark hair falls stark and limp against the white linen of his pillow, and his amber eyes flicker over her with cautious evaluation.

“I’m not leaving you,” she insists, all fear of being in trouble forgotten.

_They will have to drag me from this room._

The barest smile teases his lips and she nearly bursts into tears.

“My stubborn girl. They’re right. You cannot see…it is not permitted.” He coughs and pauses in an obvious attempt to gather his strength.

“Ben, what is happening?” she whispers, a tear trailing down her cheek despite her hearty wish to appear strong for him.

He blinks and she feels as if she’s being weighed and measured. He glances up and intones, “It’s all right. She will be my source. I will not allow her to see.”

As one, his Knights step back, but his gaze captures hers and he rasps out a sudden threat, “But do not think for one minute my illness will make me forget I am entitled to an explanation for your behavior while I was away.”

A thrill of terror creeps into her chest, but his next words distract her from even that. “If you wish to stay, you will heed me now, Omega.”

She frowns slightly at his impolite use of her designation in present company.

“Look at me. Look at my eyes.”

He does not blink, but his pupils burn with black fire, and she cannot look away.

_Do not look away. Look at me._

Blood red glints deep in the wells of his pupils, and she traces the color hungrily. Something is there. She _wants_ it, wants to sink into it, into him.

_Can’t have all of me._

A blast of fury rolls into her, stealing the oxygen from her lungs like a wicked-hot sandstorm, violent, punishing, and lethal.

 _Oh, yes. I can. Look._

Something pulls through her, a familiar red thread tugging from the bottom of her feet through the top of her head.

And like driftwood on the tide, she is caught up in his will, unfathomable, endless, formidable.

“…close your eyes, little one. You will not open them, no matter what you hear. You will sleep until I wake you…you will not open your eyes until I command it, nor will you remember any of this. Do you understand, Omega?”

“Yes, my Alpha,” she whispers, paralyzed and entranced and suddenly quite tired. Her eyelids flutter closed as she falls against him in dreamless slumber.

“Proceed,” he gasps when Rey’s hand falls limp in his and she nestles into his uninjured side.

“She will not awaken?”

“I have entranced her. She will remain so until I order otherwise.”

His Knights peel him out of his coat and shirt, cutting the garments away so as not to disturb him with unnecessary motion.

He inhales sharply through his teeth as they pull the rest of his clothing from him. The blood sticking to his shirt has dried and itches his skin.

“Your wounds have reopened. This is worse than I’ve seen before, my lord. It may take…a long while…perhaps days.”

Kylo pants hoarsely and chokes, his breath scraping the back of his throat. He knows his face is drawn in pain, but he is unconcerned with showing weakness now that Rey cannot see the full extent of damage.

“Then you’d best hope…I recover from this…or the princess will sleep unto her death…” he mutters, gripping her close. He cannot expend any additional energy on the lingering fear he put her into something of a coma just now. 

She will be all right because she must be. It is no less simple than this.

“You oughtn’t have tried to go to dinner first, my lord, you should have come straight to us.”

_I just wanted to see her with mine own eyes before I…_

Kylo would argue with the man for being so bold as to reproach him, but he cannot muster anything more than a groan of anguish.

He manages to give one final order before the world fades into black, searing agony, knowing his true penance is only just beginning.

_Go to Jakku. Bring me Lor San Tekka._

Then he reaches for _her_ , his only source of light. She’s there, at the tips of his fingers before she floats away.

He reaches again, but he finds only darkness and empty, pitiless hate that tears into his very soul.


	17. Penance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: 
> 
> Please note the following contains some elements of non-consensual somnophilia (because she’s asleep and can’t consent) that evolves from dubious to enthusiastic consent once she wakes up.
> 
> A reminder, I am keeping this fic off of Archive Warnings for now, but it IS and has been tagged for non-con elements and extremely dubious consent. 
> 
> Author’s Note:
> 
> We are zeroing in on a final chapter count for Part One, and I am absolutely floored and thrilled and just so, so thankful for every single one of you.
> 
> Once Part One is finished I will update the chapter count, but I need to decide if I’m doing this in two or three total segments. 
> 
> Anyhow, I REALLY hope you like this one. XOXO!!!

# Chapter Seventeen – Penance

“What is the price of blood?”

“Always blood, master.”

“You’ve been spilling quite a bit of it recently.”

“Master?”

“Where do I begin? Legions of Resistance bandits, dead in the battle to acquire the Golden Blood, though they hardly count as human by my reckoning. Still, they bled and died at your command. The guard _she_ overpowered on your ship. Beheaded, by your order. And Captain Canady, a loyal servant to the Empire and the Church. Bled out by your own hand on the palace steps. Like a traitor. For merely speaking his mind.”

Snoke’s demeanor turns from conversational to chilly and Kylo forces himself to remain immobile, kneeling on the hard, cold stone.

“And let us not forget the undoubtedly sweet blood of your virgin wife? Plus, a bit _extra_ , if your last confession was truthful?”

_I should not have told him of that. Damn and damn._

But, Snoke would have known immediately if Kylo had tried to hide his tumultuous thoughts, and the point is moot, anyhow.

Furious with himself for confessing that he cut Rey in the heat of passion and had been tempted to go even further, Kylo lashes out, “I came to you for spiritual guidance, not a lecture on my marital relations.”

Snoke responds with equal venom. “Do not think to prevaricate with me, boy. You did not come at all, not of your own volition. You kneel here now only because I insisted you attend me.”

Snoke’s voice, deeply resonant, never fails to send ripples of anxiety through him.

“I would ascertain for myself whether your apparent obsession with your wife’s blood has rendered you her slave. The Church will not tolerate breaches of secrecy because Its disciples believe themselves invincible to temptation. You had her maidenhead?”

“Yes," Kylo bites out curtly. A refusal to answer will only buy him more suffering at the end of the day.

But Kylo finds himself torn, unwilling to reveal further details. He would not tarnish his memory of that beautiful moment, of the way she’d cried out so prettily when he took her that first time. Of how she… _needed_ him.

The recollection belongs only to him and none other. Even Rey was too far in the throes of heat to fully understand what it meant.

Discussing it here with Snoke feels wrong. Beyond wrong. Sacrilegious. 

But Snoke is relentless. “And you find the legends to be true? Having taken her virgin’s blood for yourself, you can exercise compulsion on the girl?”

“I believe so, master, at least to some degree, though she is strong of will and can resist me.” This is more of a guess than anything, though Kylo knows it to be true.

“Resist _you_?" Snoke scoffs. "My concern is that you can resist _her_.”

“Master?”

“Only somehow she has managed to turn herself from consort into wife so quickly it makes my head spin.”

“That was my doing, not hers,” Kylo argues, eyes flashing with defiance.

“Hmmm,” Snoke purrs, “Or so she would have you believe? The girl seems to be pulling your strings rather flawlessly. She has bound you to her quite well, and with nothing more than her womanly wiles to tempt you so.”

Kylo grits his teeth together, knowing he has no defense against his impulse to publicly declare Rey his wife within days of telling the galaxy she would be his consort.

He has no logical explanation for why he did it, other than he’d lost his temper. Grudgingly, he admits Snoke has every right to take him to task over such flagrant indecisiveness.

“I thought you were already well educated on the innate duplicity of woman, being brought up by the incomparable Leia Organa?" Snoke prods the old wound with a spiteful relish and Kylo clenches his jaw. "What spiritual guidance do you require, my son?”

Snoke quickly softens his tone and sounds old and frail. Kylo is not fooled, though he is vastly tempted to let down his guard. He diverts the High Priest’s attention from Rey, however, even if it means redirecting the focus of the conversation to his own failures.

“Forgive me, master. I feel it again. The call to the light.”

“You have forgotten much of your training, it seems. And in very short order. Is your mind so weak? Undisciplined?”

“I’m sorry, master. I have been…much conflicted.”

“Yes. I can see your _conflict_ is very much apparent of late,” Snoke replies unctuously, pacing around Kylo’s kneeling form as he contemplates. “What concerns me is not your vacillating loyalties between your lovely bride and your sworn duty to me, but _why_ you seem unable to distinguish your priorities. You are unbalanced, uncentered.”

Sudden, murderous fury pours out of his master, and Kylo cannot imagine a reply that will not further infuriate him, so he holds his silence. Snoke does not tolerate excuses for negligence or weakness.

“His Holiness is _most_ displeased.” At the mention of Imperial Bishop Palpatine, Kylo’s blood runs cold.

“Displeased, master?”

“He has hinted he would have the Golden Blood wholly converted to _both_ sides of the Faith. He suggests she might start by serving a measure of time in penance herself.”

Kylo can feel the color drain from his face. He scrambles for a plausible excuse to prevent this from happening.

“She has declared herself a staunch Jedi and does not know our ways.”

“And yet she so freely participated in a Sithian Blood Oath and cut you so perfectly at the betrothal. Right on the heart line and beautifully done. I wonder if she is not naturally suited to practice our sacraments?”

Kylo swallows a mouthful of bitter fear. “I cannot ask her to take on such pursuits if I believe she carries my child.”

“ _Do_ you?”

Snoke’s voice grows oily and Kylo senses a threat. He finds it difficult to keep his head bowed in submission when every instinct he owns screams for him to strike the old man down.

“You truly think she has conceived so quickly? I admit we did hope to have you wedded to a Golden Blood well over a year ago and already producing heirs, but this? Rather unanticipated.”

When Snoke pauses with delicate expectation, Kylo strengthens his resolve to remain placid under the weight of his master's calculating scrutiny.

Snoke prods, “Or is this a ploy to detract from your obvious vulnerability for the girl?” 

“I shall bear penance for the both of us, master. As you said when you wed us, we are as one.”

“You have compassion for her,” Snoke accuses softly. “I can _smell_ the stench of it.”

“No, master,” Kylo lies. “It is merely the effect of a mating bond, surely a good thing if you wish us to produce offspring?”

Snoke ignores him. “When I found you, I thought I’d found what all masters live to see. Your royal bloodline alone made you special, or so I thought. But it is the _common_ half of you I should have been worried about, yes?”

“I don’t understand.”

“After all this time, you still have your father’s heart. I had thought we’d snuffed it out long ago.”

Kylo shifts uncomfortably. “I killed Han Solo.”

“And yet you are more like him than you realize. Do you not see it? It is clear as day. The girl is very close to ruling you. His Holiness has instructed me to remind you of your competing objectives. I thought Ben Solo died long ago, but it seems your _wife_ has resurrected him.”

“No, master. By the grace of your training, I will not be seduced.”

Snoke grunts in disbelief.

“You will not return to the palace tonight. You may begin your penance now, so I know you take it seriously.”

The words roll from his master’s tongue as though he savors them, and Kylo suppresses a shudder, knowing what’s to come.

“Yes, master.”

“You will serve three days for yourself and three days for your wife.”

Kylo glances up in shock at the hefty penalty. The High Priest sneers, and again Kylo is visited by a strong urge to strike the old man down.

“Women are creatures of guile and deceit and their evil lures must be purged from the blood, so we are not enticed into blind service at the expense of righteous duty.”

Snoke leans close and lifts Kylo's chin so he can peer down at him. Kylo fights not to flinch away but to hold his master's gaze.

“...and once we have expunged that bleeding heart of yours, you will then bleed a day for your disrespect to me. I will see to it. Personally.”

A cold wash of dread runs through him, but he does not argue. Better this than having to send for Rey to join him here in what will soon be living hell.

“Yes, master,” he whispers, bowing his head with deference and hoping Rey will understand his absence and lack of explanation.

He wakes in the dark and clutches warm softness against his naked skin.

_My source, the light to beckon my return._

His heart pounds and his first electrifying thought is that he’s somehow dragged her down with him and they will be trapped forever in the gloomy, ethereal realms of death.

Too much time spent _there_ will lead to insanity, and Kylo concentrates on pulling himself out, finding and grasping his focal point.

Yes. He’s back in Coruscant. The land of the living.

And she is most definitely… _alive_ …

_Rey._

In his heightened state, her blood calls to him, rich and heady. Sensitized to an almost painful awareness, he can hear her pulse, trace the slight veins in her neck and wrists by scent alone.

This hypersensitivity will fade in a few minutes, but for now, he revels in it.

His eyes adjust easily in the shadows. The darkness is his own. It _belongs_ to him.

_Her scent…a drug…addictive._

Beside him, her steady breathing continues uninterrupted, and a few moments pass before he realizes the bed curtains are drawn to block the morning sun.

He tugs a heavy drapery to reveal a sliver of light and groans aloud. Any illumination is a stark and shocking contrast to where he’s spent the better part of two days.

 _During,_ it seemed an eternity, though every moment was necessary.

And now he’s returned and in perfect condition.

Physically, at least.

Mentally, he is unstable. Familiar tendrils of dark magic have latched onto his consciousness to lend an expected volatility to his emotions.

Unconsciously, he reaches for and clutches his center of focus, that cold seed of darkness in the bottom of his gut, smooth and polished hard and black as the pit of a starless night.

It is there and it comforts him.

He will be especially dangerous now, but this will fade, too. This has always been the way. He gives himself over to it, feeling more beast than man.

Shifting, he nuzzles against her neck before moving down to bury his nose in the crook of her arm where her scent is deliciously potent.

_Sweet, lovely Omega. Mine._

He grows aroused, instantly and painfully hard, grinding against her silk-covered thigh and inhaling deeply. 

_I want._

She lies unmoving under his weight, a pretty thing for him to use however he wishes. Unabated need slips into him, primitive and untamed.

She cannot stop him from taking whatever he wants, defenseless as she is, a beautiful doll, asleep until he decides otherwise. He briefly considers keeping her in suspended animation forever, eternally connected to his will, needing only him and unable to run away.

Then everything slams into his mind on a single stroke.

_Treacherous little bitch. You did try to run, didn’t you?_

He sniffs at the air, abruptly incensed.

When Snoke finally dismissed him from Church, Kylo was so relieved to be _done_ with it, the stench and blood and pain, it took him a few minutes to comprehend Mitaka’s report, delivered upon Kylo’s return to the palace.

He wanted to see her _instantly_ and when she was not waiting for him, he’d barked, “Where’s my wife?” to his pale-faced servant.

“At dinner with the court, my lord.”

Had he more energy at the time, Kylo would have gone to the dining hall _immediately_ and dragged her back to his rooms. But he’d been disturbingly weak.

Still, he'd begun to hastily dress for dinner, furious but unsurprised over her disregard for his orders that she remain within the royal apartments.

And so while he rather gingerly changed into a clean dress shirt and coat, Mitaka informed him of Rey’s activities during his absence.

Not the least of which was an infuriating incident in the tunnels. 

“The guard who touched her? Where is he?”

“Awaiting your pleasure in the dungeon, my lord.”

“And you said Phasma has information for me, as well?”

“Yes, milord. Should I send for her?”

He’d been lightheaded from the pain but could bear it a while longer, until he could see Rey with his own eyes. “It can wait.”

Mitaka nodded, reading his lord's quicksilver mood and keeping only to the facts. Kylo fought to keep any evidence of pain from his voice or countenance and hoped the dressings on his wounds would hold through dinner.

“I would have my Knights attend me the second I return from dinner. Call for them to await me outside the dining hall. I…do not know…how long I shall be.”

_…how long I shall last…_

He proceeded rather feebly to dinner, his mind so full he almost forgot about Lor San Tekka until he returned to his rooms.

But he thinks of the man now as he looks upon Rey, helpless beneath him.

Kylo wonders how long it will take his Knights to acquire San Tekka.

It took nearly all week in penance before he finally connected the name to his own childhood.

And while Snoke watched him too closely for him to attempt divination using his own blood, not that he’d had any to spare, Kylo became increasingly sure that the Lor San Tekka who taught Rey to play Dejarik on Jakku was the same man who long ago helped bring down Vader’s Empire.

From his memories, Lor San Tekka had visited Leia Organa just once, and Ben Solo had only been four or five years old at the time. But the man had impressed him even then, being one of the Rebellion’s greatest military strategists.

_A tremendous coincidence, him ending up on Jakku, but not completely unfathomable. Though now I know why she’s such a brilliant Dejarik player._

Sweetly fragrant as always, her scent mingles pleasantly with his, and a strong surge of desire overcomes him.

He cannot help but watch her face as he moves close and mouths at her scent gland, licking at her until her taste lingers on his tongue and blood pulses hotly at his groin.

_I will wake her soon and look into those devious eyes...read the truth for myself…but first…_

Although his clothes were stripped, she still wears her evening gown from dinner two nights ago.

Kylo carefully tugs her bodice down, noting the fullness of her breasts, the lovely shape, how his large, dark hands contrast so alluringly with her soft, delicate skin.

_I could tear you to pieces and none could stop me._

Gently, he takes a rosy nipple into his mouth and teases it with his tongue, grinding his erection against her. He watches in fascination as the tip of her breast hardens into a tight bud when he pulls away.

_That’s mine…belongs to me._

He runs a hand along her side, down her leg, all the way to a slender ankle, only to slide up again, this time under her skirt. Saliva fills his mouth at the smooth texture of her, and he tugs her skirts up, exposing her thighs.

His bite mark, high on the inside of her upper thigh, has faded to pink. Unable to help himself, he crawls down and rubs the scruff of his chin over the spot, licking it and sinking his teeth into the tender flesh hard enough to leave an imprint, temporarily overcome at the memory of the very first time he bit her there.

_Mine._

He settles alongside her again and sweeps a curved finger over her cheek. She appears terribly young and innocent like this, her mouth parted slightly, her silky hair tangled across his pillow. But he knows better.

_Snoke was wise to warn me against her wiles._

His heart hardens as he observes her. She may appear guileless, but like all women, she is a creature of deception and he would do well to remember it.

He might have told Snoke she could be carrying his child, but she most definitely must be brought to heel, regardless. 

The incident in the tunnels can only have been an escape attempt. There is no other logical explanation.

_I shall have to keep her very close, indeed._

Though he’s left his mortal injuries behind in the death and darkness of another place, he rapidly finds himself flooded with a craving to go back, only this time to take her with him…to _show_ her…

When he dips his head to kiss her, she does not respond with her typical enthusiasm, nor do her eyes open at the touch of his lips on hers.

Meditatively, he kneads her breasts until her nipples harden again, then pushes a finger into the soft heat between her legs and strokes for a few leisurely minutes until she grows so wet he must battle the urge to plow into her without restraint.

She’s become swollen and flushed under his caresses, the pink lips of her sex glistening like ripe fruit, the scent of her beyond tempting.

 _Enough_.

“Wake for me, princess,” he murmurs against her neck. “Open your eyes.”

Her chest heaves and she inhales deeply, blinking awake and appearing adorably confused.

She arches her hips instinctively into his hand and he pushes his fingers deeper inside, grunting at the delicious gush of slick and her soft moan.

She breathes weakly, “Ben?”

“You tried to run from me,” he growls hotly against her mouth. “After all these weeks, you have not learned…how disappointing…”

“What? Ben…” His thumb slips against her clitoris and she groans, making him shiver with anticipation.

“I will not hear your lies,” he informs her, rubbing in deliberate little circles until she parts her legs and arches again. “Though they do fall so sweetly upon my ears.”

She’s disoriented, unable to pull herself into full awareness just yet.

“How long have we been asleep?”

_Not asleep. Not me. I’ve been…elsewhere._

He knows he’s radiating a sort of perilous energy, unpredictable and ferocious, a remnant of the darkness he’d steeped in for days.

She whimpers, and her eyes have gone wide, perhaps with a trace of fear.

_You have no idea how much you ought to fear me right now, princess._

“Shhhh…” he warns, hearing servants enter the room.

Ravenous, he plunders her mouth, stealing the air from her lungs and infusing it with his own. She threads her fingers into his hair and he gasps softly at the decadence of her touch. 

_It's been too long._

The sounds of servants tidying and setting the fire in the hearth and the gentle clink of dishes being laid upon tables reminds him to be quiet, so he swoops in for another kiss. The very lowest of whispers reaches him through the mostly drawn bed curtains; the servants believe them to be asleep.

He captures her gaze and resumes stroking between her legs and she’s so warm and wet and tight around his finger, he bites his bottom lip, hard. She squirms against his insistent caress, but he only presses deeper. He’s frightening her and his mouth curves into a feral smile.

“I would not have them hear us, my love,” he says, nearly silent in her ear, cupping his other hand over her mouth and squeezing with a gentle threat. “Though I will have my due from you, just as I promised.”

_What are you hiding from me, Omega?_

Gripping her chin, he unleashes a thread of compulsion, drilling her with his gaze as if he would excavate her most private thoughts from her head.

And for the briefest moment, he catches a glimpse of something. Something that is not his. 

_Resist it, Rey._

She stares back at him frozen, horrified, knowing he could see it, and a wicked sort of rage unfurls in his gut. She feels it too and struggles beneath him, trying to escape the intensity of his barrage.

Suddenly uncaring of who else is in the room, he growls and slams his mouth onto hers, hard enough to render her breathless.

He waits until his bedchamber door clicks shut before unleashing the full force of fury, snarling, “You think to resist me? Deny my claim on you?”

A flare of alarm passes through their bond. It's hers.

“Ah, you _do_ ,” he spits, ripping her skirts out of the way, beyond infuriated. “We’re going to lay waste to that line of thinking right...fucking…now.”

He’s crushing her into the bed, and she shoves at his chest, but he doesn’t let up, finding it increasingly difficult to harness his wrath.

“Get _off_ me, you mongrel!”

“What if I don’t?” he croons, savage hostility weaving into the scent of her panic. Roughly, he settles more firmly atop her, until his erection prods at her entrance.

“I’ll scream,” she threatens.

But he only laughs as luxurious darkness slithers around his heart. “You scream all you want, sweetheart. Not a soul would dare interfere.”

He watches, greedy, as she acknowledges the truth of the situation.

“Were you trying to run from me?” He _knows_ she was, but dammit, he wants her to at least make a pretense of denial. “You can’t lie to me right now, I’m too fresh from…”

 _Shit_.

“Fresh from what?”

_Not what. Where._

“Were you? Trying to run?”

“Get off me,” she insists, though halfheartedly. “I will _not_ be subjected to this…ungentlemanly conduct!”

"Ungentlemanly?" he mocks, staring at her heaving bosom. He wrangles her wrists into his grasp and laughs again, knowing he's being crude and feeling a bit of a thrill that she can't seem to decide if she likes it or despises it. 

Apparently he's become a rampaging barbarian.

More so than usual.

"Ben, I can explain, if you would just..."

He can feel her heart begin to pound and his own blood thrums to match hers. Something dark and possessive curls low in his gut.

His voice goes deadly soft. “So you admit to being there? Out of bounds without permission?"

"I was, but..."

"And what did I see just now in that pretty little head of yours? You're hiding something from me. I would know what it is. This instant."

She shakes her head, but weakly. "You're behaving like a beast. I'm not giving you anything."

"Then I shall just have to fuck that rebel spirit right out of you, my love,” he counters, not bothering to reign in the animal lust pouring out of him.

He pushes her thighs up and out and watches the way her breasts jiggle when he thrusts violently inside.

_Mine. You shall never escape me. Never._

“Ben…” she moans. “Gods…”

A scalding fist of pleasure wraps around the base of his spine, and he grips her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze while he pistons his hips into her with relentless abandon. 

“What happened to the screaming?” he taunts, out of breath. “I thought you were going to?”

He sucks peaked nipple into his mouth, and she squeals with delight and thrashes under him.

“Are…you…planning on leaving me?” he asks, rasping his chin over the tightly furled bud until she clenches down so hard his vision whites out.

“…Ben! _Please_ …oh, gods!”

“Are you?” He fucks into her soft, clutching heat until she’s pulsing and quivering around him. “After everything?”

“I wasn’t!”

“You’re lying. You’re withholding something. What is it?”

She screeches when he gives her a heavy thrust of his hips but every time she’s almost _there_ , he pulls out and peppers her with kisses, scuffing his beard over her skin until she’s covered with red marks.

He fucks her and withdraws, over and over, until she lies limp and sobbing, crying and begging for release, until he no longer has the will to resist, and she pants and grasps his arms, fingernails digging in and reminding him he’s alive. And so is she.

But she’s holding back, so he opens their bond, a living thing between them. He pours his will into it, determined to see...

... _you can't have all of me_...

.. _.the hell I can't._.. _you're mine._..

She cries and trembles beneath him, her mind touching his as she stares into his eyes and they’re coming, and _fuck_ he can see it, feel it, taste it, smell it... 

His eyes flutter closed and he's lost...she’s gripping him, giving over to him, endlessly…only…instead of sinking into her, he feels a terrible kind of surrender, a pull of rapture so strong everything around him and in him bends and contracts and implodes....until it doesn’t matter who’s thinking what.

He twists his hips and spills himself in her on a low growl.

And he realizes she's there, _in_ him and she can see things she should not be seeing.

While he tries desperately to grasp the loose threads of control, he can’t.

Belatedly he reminds himself compulsion can flow both ways…

 _Fuck_.

Suddenly he's desperately, frantically trying to untangle their thoughts.

_She can see things._

“Ben. Where were you? What happened?”

He lies half on top of her, panting, gaping at the remnants of pleasure still twisting between them.

“Why did that soldier put his hands on you?” he asks, wresting his mind from hers with a vicious tug.

Rey’s eyes go wide as saucers and Kylo mutters again, with more force, “Why did he touch you, Rey?”

“He didn’t mean to,” she says softly, though Kylo cares not a whit for such distinctions. The soldier will die for his transgression.

“Tell me what happened in the tunnels,” he coaxes, trying to inject a bit of calm into his voice.

She’s staring at the mole above his eyebrow, and he wonders why she will not meet his gaze.

“I think I’m pregnant,” she says eventually. “I went into the tunnels because I thought maybe I could find someone to get word to Rose. Nobody will help me find her to send a message, and I knew you wouldn’t allow it. But you’d been gone for days and I was…”

“…frightened.” He finishes her thought because it still lingers in his mind, her abject terror of _knowing_ …

“Why, sweetheart?”

And then.

_Ah. Of course._

“You’re frightened…of having my child?” It hurts to speak the words aloud but there is no other logical conclusion and frankly, he cannot blame her.

Tears swim in her eyes and he cannot read her now, not like he could even seconds before, but he senses it, a wrongness, a something _off_.

And then it hits him, a strong surge of relief. 

_Safe. She’ll be safe from the clutches of the Church for now. Thank the gods._

Suddenly she’s smoothing her hands over his cheeks and forehead and into his hair and pushing his shoulders until he leans back so she can look at him and run her hands over his chest and torso.

“Ben, I thought you were so ill and now you’re…and I smelled blood, _your_ blood and then _after_ …I can’t remember…what happened?”

He shakes his head and kisses the tears from her cheeks. "Sounds like you had a nightmare, sweetheart. Nothing more."

_Nor will you ever know of it, my darling._

_A trip to the Underworld is not for the likes of you._


	18. Pretenses

# Chapter Eighteen – Pretenses

**Two Years Later –**

Rey nearly returns to the washroom for another bout of tears when she catches sight of his dark head bent, shoulders gently bouncing to soothe Hope’s mewling.

But, as much as she might wish to avoid seeing him behave with such heartbreaking tenderness, she cannot stay locked in the washroom forever.

“…hush now, sweeting…” he coos, then breaks off when he senses her presence. 

Even as she watches, his spine stiffens.

Thankfully, food already waits for her on the fold-down table, and while it is nothing like the simple, wholesome fare she became accustomed to on Takodana, she’s happy to have it.

Especially now.

Hope will be crying with outright hunger soon, and Rey is famished, as well. Best if she tries to fortify herself while she has the opportunity.

Rey can’t remember a time in the past week when she’s had both hands free to eat, so reluctant was she to relinquish the baby, even with Kalonia there. But now, she will take advantage of an extra pair of hands, even _his_ , while she gobbles down the warm and nourishing, if not bland, rehydrated rations.

The distinctive taste reminds her of Jakku, though the quality here is better and the quantity more plentiful, almost too much to finish in one sitting. But old habit takes over, and she won't waste food, especially when she knows supplies are probably limited here.

She finishes so quickly a small hiccup emerges when she eases back onto the cot, her hunger sated and breasts tingling with milk for the baby.

She can no longer avoid his gaze when she holds out her hands for Hope.

Kylo’s eyes glitter with hostility but he carefully rests Hope in her arms and resumes his seat.

Settling back into the pillows, she notices an extra one has appeared since she withdrew for her hasty ablutions. She wonders which of his _dogs_ is being made to forego this slight luxury for her sake and spitefully hopes whomever it is finds his sleep substantially less-than-comfortable.

Hope latches on eagerly and it triggers in Rey the now-recognizable relief of breastfeeding, a deep ache, low in her core, as her womb contracts from the hormones released. Despite her husband’s lurking resentment overshadowing the room, the moment is oddly intimate, the three of them existing together with nothing but Hope’s small snuffles and grunts between them.

The baby’s scent is so soft and lovely, even mingled with Kylo’s, Rey finds herself fleetingly lost, caught up in the tiny, wise little eyes looking up at her.

But it isn’t long at all before she perceives a similar set of eyes looking on in stony silence.

His demeanor has returned to open enmity, and Rey had hoped to converse rationally and appeal to his merciful side, if any exists.

_Don’t be a fool, Rey. He’s a monster. Proven time and again._

“Will you not eat, my lord?” she asks, for lack of any other topic to break the rigid tension.

“I _had_ planned on it.” Sarcasm drips from his reply. “Though if you still intend to murder me, perhaps you might consider something more expeditious than starvation.”

Belatedly, she realizes she’s eaten Kylo’s portion, too. She can feel her face flush, but she refuses to apologize. If not for him, she would still be back on Takodana and eating as much as she wanted whenever she wished.

_He can starve for all I care._

But she does care.

“And do not think my vow not to touch you will prevent me from defending myself,” he adds with venom.

“What?” she blusters.

His voice turns frigid. “I refer, of course, to the dagger you’ve hidden away in that basket.”

A frisson of alarm tickles the back of her neck. If anything, he appears more frightening than ever as he shakes his head slightly, jaw clenched, brow furrowed.

Hope squawks when Rey accidentally jostles her in an effort not to glance reflexively at the basket and confirm her guilt.

_Damn him._

“You may keep the gods-be-damned thing if it eases your mind. But if you think to use it on me again…think twice.”

He bares his teeth and his unfinished thought is crystal clear. An old, familiar scent of brimstone fills the air, and she shivers unconsciously, well aware of the threat he’s issuing.

_I’ll make you wish you were there. In the afterlife._

They glare at each other for a while, until Rey switches Hope to her other side.

“Must you stare so rudely?” she bites with sudden irritation. “Certainly your ill temper does none of us any benefit. There is no need to glower and sulk and create such an unpleasant atmosphere. You have achieved your aims and found us.”

“You would do well to mind your manner of speech, princess,” he snarls with such hair-raising malevolence, she pales, “for the trouble you’ve instigated, not to mention the deaths your plotting has caused, intentional or not.”

She clamps her jaw shut to match his.

By the time Hope dozes off with a sweet, milky smile on her perfect little mouth, Rey is exhausted and nearly in tears over the idea of trying to evade Kylo’s pending inquiries. He will not wait much longer for an accounting, and she has already promised she _will_ tell him what happened.

Though she does plan on lying through her teeth.

She takes her time ensuring Hope is tucked snug and sleeping in her basket, stalling against the inevitable onslaught of interrogation. 

“I would hear your explanation now,” he demands. “How did you escape? And who else helped you besides Kalonia?”

A tear, and then another streams down her cheeks, and she angrily scrubs the offensive wetness from her face, scowling at Kylo for making her so emotional.

“No one helped me,” she sniffs, keeping her voice low and even. “I found my way to Street Level through the merchant’s tunnels under the palace and bought safe passage to Takodana after blackmailing Kalonia.”

“I don’t believe you, princess. Those tunnels are an impossible labyrinth to the inexperienced, and well-guarded, besides. And we’ve already established you have exceptional skill for deceit. Who else helped you?”

The force in his voice is enough to make her cringe, but if she falters now, he will run roughshod over the rest of her fence of lies and obliterate her defenses.

And if he ever finds out what else she’s done, how far she went…he will destroy her, vow or no.

His eyes bore into her with palpable intensity, and the weakening submission that always accompanies his irresistible compulsion floods her, making her limbs heavy and her breathing light as their pulses synchronize.

He ought not to do it, or she will turn it on him again…but he isn’t stopping and she’s too tired to resist.

She reminds herself what he plans to do when they arrive back on Coruscant, of how she will be hurled straight again into the murky depths of the game.

Recklessly she lets him in, just a little.

_If you wish to go this way again, my lord, so be it. I will always outmatch you._

_You think to resist me, still? I will not cease until I have what I desire. You ought to know me better by now, Rey._

_You should have left me on Takodana._

_And you should have finished the job, princess, and not merely left me for dead. Who helped you?_

She fixes her mind on a single name and watches disbelief flash in his eyes.

“No. That isn’t possible.”

Doubling down on her mental effort, she presses back with all her remaining strength.

_It’s true._

She shudders when he retreats so quickly his lips tremble, and he stands unexpectedly, pushing a shaking hand into his hair and knocking his chair out of place.

“You lie,” he insists through gritted teeth. But he’s rattled.

_Good._

She shakes her head _no_ and leans into her pillows, closing her eyes against him, though he is her enemy.

_In this matter, you will have no honor. Honor will get you killed._

* * *

**Coruscant, Roughly Two Years Earlier –**

_If you must lie, best to make the lie rooted in truth. Keep it simple. Elaborate deceptions are always caught out._

_Turn the lie into a question, if you can. Always get something for what you give. Even if you lose ground, you will invariably learn something._

_Information is currency and knowledge is power._

“…I wonder if there is a sudden shortage of competent ladies’ maids among the women of my court?” Kylo muses from his seat next to her at the high table.

“My lord?”

“Well, it appears a new fashion has risen up and I have yet to be informed of it.”

Rey glances around wondering what he means. Everyone seems to be behaving with flawless manners.

For a welcome change.

He settles in with his typical self-assurance, and Rey covertly appraises his mood and body language. She’s perhaps never fully appreciated just how _Alpha_ he is until this morning when he was so close to feral.

After their last troubling, albeit passionate, encounter, he left her almost immediately, hardly speaking other than to assure her his illness must have only been severe exhaustion that apparently carried over through their bond and made them sleep for two straight days.

He ordered her to stay abed until her pregnancy was confirmed by his medical staff and told her in no uncertain terms she was to remain in his bedchamber until he came for her.

Then he rushed away without another word, except to inform the guards outside his door she was not to exit the room without his explicit permission.

Although he had not offered anything else by way of explanation, Rey had a sneaking suspicion he’d gone to interrogate and execute the unfortunate soldier who’d been caught up in her misadventure in the tunnels.

She waited for him all day, alternating between mind-numbing boredom and rapidly escalating panic.

And after a most embarrassing physician’s examination confirming her worst fears, her apprehension only expanded.

Her pregnancy will be a devastating blow to the Resistance, and Rey knows it won’t be long at all before the entire galaxy is made aware, though she did her best to warn Leia the minute she suspected.

Which is the real reason she’d been in the tunnels.

Since escorting her to dinner, Kylo still emanates the same sinister aloofness from earlier, his motions and speech revealing a sharp edge that wasn’t there before. Instinctively, she shies away from it.

He’s armored himself in shadows, complete with a sort of impenetrable mask that obscures the previous affection he’s lavished on her since their wedding.

His manners are no less exquisite than usual, his flattering compliments and smoldering gazes still extravagant as ever…but he’s assumed an element of danger layered over his already formidable temperament.

Or perhaps the darkness that always seems to hover around him has only become distilled, intensified, somehow.

She knows he likely still carries some lingering anger over her disobedience, but she senses something else, too, an otherworldly menace, and it disturbs her.

Until she can decipher what has happened, she will tread lightly.

“If there is a new fashion, my lord, then I fear I am hopelessly lost, as well,” she comments, waiting patiently for everyone below them to taste their soup.

While he was away, she had done her best to make an impression and she _has_ made some headway in her attempts to convince the members of the court to refrain from openly groping each other and worse, at least while at dinner, though she still catches a furtive touch here and there.

Apparently, she’s arrived just in time to enact a modicum of civilizing influence upon her courtiers where they were previously happy to engage in the most obscene behaviors…and in public.

Kylo watches her as if he can read every thought in her head.

Combined with the wraithlike gloom hovering around him, she’s feeling a bit off-kilter.

“Phasma tells me you’ve insisted upon a bit more restraint at court.”

She arches a brow. “Well, I merely noted that the hallmark of civilization is moderation, and I suggested my court ought to exercise a smidgen of it while I dine. So as not to upset my sensitive digestion.”

“Your digestion?” he scoffs, amber eyes glowing with mild humor. “I’ve seen battle-scarred soldiers at arms with weaker stomachs than you, my love.”

His quiet tone softens the remark into a compliment somehow, and her cheeks turn pink under his blatant perusal.

She lifts her soup bowl to her lips and takes an eager sip before she replies, “Well, _I know_ my digestion is just fine, as do you, but they do not, and frankly I find dinner much more palatable when it’s missing the accompaniment of Lady Bazine’s passionate wailing resounding over the soup course.”

Rey does not exaggerate. Just last week the woman had quite blatantly allowed Lord Kaplan to crawl up under her skirts and…while at dinner, no less.

Kylo nods and takes an elegant sip from his own bowl. “I must say, I do not miss that _particular_ addition to my meal.”

“You’re not angry I’m making a few small changes, are you?” Rey asks.

“Not at all, my love.”

She wonders if he will confide what he’s been doing all day.

“Was the remainder of your day satisfactory?” She keeps the question casual, taking another dainty sip.

Palpable darkness crosses his face and he mutters, “Most satisfactory.”

A chill runs through her at his quicksilver mood swing, so she changes the subject.

“And what new fashion is it you speak of, milord?”

Abruptly, his disposition shifts again. His teeth flash white in a devilish grin, and he is so handsome it catches her breath a bit. Her stomach twists as she recalls what transpired between them this morning.

“Well, I cannot help but notice how in the course of your tenure here, every single woman of the court has, I think intentionally, managed to effect a certain… _disorder_ to her otherwise impeccable toilette.”

Rey cocks her head and takes a stealthy glance around the dining hall, observing a subtle but conspicuous dishevelment among the ladies of her court. And a few of the men, too.

She would never have caught it before, but now that Kylo has pointed it out, she catches a mismatched stocking or a loose ribbon or a less than perfect coiffure and realizes the women are indeed mimicking her own constantly untidy appearance.

“They mock me?” she whispers, aghast.

Since her arrival in Coruscant months ago, maintaining an orderly, dignified mien is the one thing she’s been trying to manage but finds distressingly difficult. Inevitably, by the end of the day, she will return to her looking-glass only to find a lock of hair out of place or an untucked handkerchief peeping from her bodice or an untied lacing on her slipper or...

…now that she thinks about it, around three weeks ago Phasma _had_ remarked upon her propensity to go unawares for an entire day wearing mismatched stockings…

Her cheeks flush warmer and Kylo leans close, “Do not be offended, my love. Flattery’s highest form is imitation. They emulate only that which they believe worthy of admiration…and I confess I find it quite charming.”

“Are you telling me they’ve deliberately set about to wear wrinkled gowns and tease their hair into a frizz as a way of…complimenting me?”

“Indeed.”

He takes her hand and presses a slow, hot kiss to her skin and his gaze sweeps over her with such possessive yearning, she rather wishes she had not put a ban on public displays of affection at the dinner table. He keeps her hand in his, pushing his thumb over the inside of her palm until her toes curl.

From the corner of her eye, she notices a tall, handsome man in uniform enter the hall, and for some reason, she stiffens. The man’s piercing eyes meet hers briefly, sending a mysterious thrill down her spine, though he immediately shifts to Kylo and bows from across the room.

Haughtily, Kylo lifts his other hand and beckons him to approach.

“Who’s that?” Rey asks, noting his brisk military stride and manicured appearance. This man would never allow anything upon his person to appear intentionally out of place, whether fashionable or not.

Kylo squeezes her fingers in his and mutters, “That is Hux. My necessary evil, though the best military man I’ve ever met. He’s managed to work miracles these past years, and I will rely upon him to help me crush my uncle and the Resistance to a bloody pulp.”

Hux reaches the high table and doffs his cap, exposing a head of bright copper hair, trimmed short and severe. Rey notes the insignia on his uniform indicating his rank of First Order General.

Rey gives him a tentative smile, but she is more interested in the slightly strained camaraderie between him and her husband.

“You’re late. Won’t you join us?” Kylo invites with near flamboyant generosity, furthering the contrast between them.

Hux glances at the table and the noticeable lack of an available seat.

“I fear I have not dressed for dinner, Supreme Leader,” he replies diplomatically, “though I hastened here as soon as I received your summons.”

Before anyone can say a word, Kylo, still holding Rey’s hand, pulls her into his lap. She can hear a few titters from the low table, as the court avidly watches her every move.

_So much for being a model of restraint._

“I insist. Behold, a seat has just become available.”

“Thank you most kindly, my lord. My lady.” Hux takes Rey’s vacated seat with cool grace.

Rey has a feeling this man prefers to dine in austere silence well away from the giggling, chattering, frivolous members of the court. She cannot say she entirely disagrees with the appeal of the idea.

Still, appearances must be made, so she settles atop Kylo’s muscled thighs and allows his large palm to rest at her waist. She does her best to put on a polite face, trying to cover her annoyance.

Evidently, she must now share Kylo’s dinner, but she had just started on her soup and Kylo has almost finished his.

She digs an elbow into his midsection under the pretense of lifting the bowl to her lips and Kylo grunts and chuckles under his breath, “We can send for more later, my darling, never fear. I won’t have you fainting from hunger in your delicate condition.”

She can tell Hux overhears and finds herself unreasonably self-conscious.

“My lady,” Hux murmurs quietly, “I would be among the first to extend my most heartfelt congratulations. Supreme Leader, you must be most pleased.”

Kylo smirks and runs his palm lightly down Rey’s bare arm, drawing goosebumps in its wake.

“I _am_ most pleased, and I thank you, General.” He sounds ridiculously satisfied, only increasing Rey’s uneasiness over the entire situation.

“Perhaps I might offer a token of felicitations to her ladyship and a simultaneous justification for my delayed arrival, my lord?”

Something ominous prickles over the goosebumps when Hux looks hesitantly at Rey, then away again, as if he’s unsure whether he is allowed to address her too boldly.

She beams with as much sunny encouragement as she can muster to cover her foreboding sensation of doom. “My lord husband tells me you have been indispensable in his efforts to bring the galaxy into line.”

“No need to exaggerate, my lady, I’m sure I know exactly where I stand with his lordship.”

But Hux smiles as he speaks, pure charm twinkling in his bright eyes and Rey can’t help but smile in return, despite herself.

“As you say, my lord.”

“It’s just General, my lady. No lordship, here.”

He extracts a small, carved box from his coat pocket and hands it to her.

“I found it just before I came to the palace, actually. I had thought to use it to hold my cufflinks, but perhaps you might give it a better use, my lady, since it was designed after you?”

“What’s this? Designed after me?” she asks, intrigued, feeling her husband’s eyes crawling over her as she traces a finger over the carving on the lid.

Hux replies easily, “For sale in the Lower Market, my lady. It seems the people have adopted a sigil for you, in light of your new titles and status as a goddess. Shrines have been erected all over Market Level and at Street Level, as well, though to venture there is most hazardous and I do not recommend it.”

“How curious! Why was a phoenix chosen, I wonder?” Her heart is hammering, and surely Kylo can hear it thumping frantically in her bosom.

_This is it. The Phoenix. My contact._

“Well, forgive the assumption, my lady, but I guessed it was in relation to your noteworthy victories over his lordship on the Dejarik table and your…unpretentious bloodline.”

Kylo snorts at the euphemism and Rey examines the carving with interest. The box has no latch and must be turned a certain way to open.

“Oh! What a clever little thing!” she cries when the lid slides free. She does it again and reluctantly goes to hand it back. “But I cannot accept it, General. I cannot lay claim to a sigil of my own when I belong under the protection of my lord husband’s house and the sigil of the Black Sun.”

“Ah, but if you would only hear of the adventure I endured to obtain it, my lady! And the reason for my tardiness this evening, as well. Deep in the Scrum, I was, in the most unsavory part, well below Market Level, when an assassin tried to take my head off…”

Kylo rolls his eyes at Hux’s slightly dramatic delivery, and he mocks, “Surely you exaggerate. Isn’t someone _always_ trying to kill you?”

Hux grins. “Well, obviously I was triumphant, but there was most assuredly a scuffle _and_ an assassin, my lord. It might do to clear out the Scrum again soon, if we have the resources to do so.”

“We will not have any to spare, though you will be pleased to know the High Priest has seen fit to grant me authority over the Church’s armies upon his safe return to Mustafar. Which is why I called you here. We have much to discuss, now that we can finally establish a military cohort and bring my uncle to heel.”

Redirecting the conversation back to the matter at hand, Rey chimes in, “It does sound as if you’ve had an adventure to acquire the thing. Nevertheless, I cannot accept such a gift, General. Though the box is quite lovely.”

“Let us see it, my love,” Kylo requests. He shuffles her in his lap and observes the little box for a minute, turning it as Rey had done to open the lid. “The craftsmanship is well done, if not rudimentary.”

His eyes meet hers and he smiles softly. “My darling, you certainly have my permission to accept it, so long as you put your new sigil and the box to good use.”

She smiles to cover the wild thumping of her heartbeat.

“Well, then I most graciously do accept, and thank you, General Hux.”

“Hux, I’ve heard tell of Omegas being trafficked in unchecked numbers in the outer realms,” Kylo murmurs, still smiling at her. “Once we have demolished the Resistance and bring the New Republic under the wing of the First Order, I will prevail upon you to investigate these claims and put a stop to it by any means necessary. Perhaps we will have all of the galaxy’s problems resolved before I am crowned Imperial Emperor.”

“That would be outstanding, Supreme Leader.”

“We host a ball next week. You shall join my council to strategize until then, and you may join the celebrations before you ship out.”

“Excellent, my lord. I shall look forward to it. To _all_ of it.”

Kylo moves to unpin the massive ruby from his cravat and presses it into Rey’s hand. “Something so cleverly made should not go unused a moment longer than it must. Here’s a keepsake to stow inside.”

The ruby is large and glints like wet blood in the candlelight at their table. It must be extraordinarily valuable. Likely worth a small battalion, at the least. Probably enough to provision the entire remaining Resistance armies for half a year.

“I…I thank you, my lord husband, though this is too generous, I’m sure…”

“Nonsense. A token of my esteem, my dear, and surely no less than you deserve,” Kylo purrs, caressing his marks on the back of her neck with a long finger.

_This is merely the deed to my property._

“Thank you,” she whispers.

The faintest glimmer of pleasure lights his eyes alongside that same, odd otherworldliness she cannot identify.

“Perhaps you may wish to thank me for it more appropriately in private,” he suggests, kissing the side of her neck with obvious ardor. 

Hux is watching the whole scene and doing his best not to smirk too lewdly.

The weight of the gem is heavy in her hand and she hears a vulgar snicker from halfway down the low table.

_A whore._

_I’m nothing more than a whore, for all my pretenses of virtue_ , she realizes with sudden fury, slipping the ruby into the Phoenix’s box and wishing she was anywhere but here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaaaahhhhh, things are really picking up and I AM SO FRICKIN EXCITED to bring on the darkness and oh my goodness I just love each and every one of you for reading and commenting and kudosing and all of it. 
> 
> Thank you so much for joining me on this journey, it is a true privilege. XOXOOOOOO!!!


	19. Old Vows, New Truths

# Chapter Nineteen – Old Vows, New Truths

_He will bring back the Lottery because blunt force has always been the easiest route to power for those who wield the cudgel. He will stand upon the backs of countless casualties and name his rule a prosperous one; but even your parents, Rey, were slaves to that system, whether or not the Lottery was ever technically legal during their lifetimes._

_They were slaves and they died enslaved to a corrupt system, just as many, many before them were so callously slain by Vader’s war machine. They had no choice or opportunity to alter the course of their lives, but you do._

_You must decide if you would risk your own life and more to bring freedom to others like your parents, to those without a voice in their own fates. In another life, under a regime of liberty, you would have grown up to know your mother’s love and your father’s protection, free from tyranny._

_But so long as the galaxy is at risk of falling under the Old Laws…well, surely you can see why we must fight so unswervingly for the Cause of the Resistance?_

_My son will justify his actions against me and rationalize his propensity for war and destruction as necessary evils, and he will be convincing, make no mistake. He has only grown stronger and most of the systems that cede to the First Order believe him to be the best option for political stability._

_But the truth will out, and he will show his colors time and again if you only watch for it and not allow yourself to be seduced by his lies or fall to the lure of material wealth._

Kylo's ruby glints mockingly up at her, and Rey snaps the box closed, listening with half an ear to Kylo and Hux's idle chatter. 

Under the gloom of her morose ponderings, Rey is too distracted to notice when one of the Knights of Ren appears in the dining hall until the man looms before their table, casting a shadow over the plate she shares with Kylo.

She’s rather lost her appetite already, but when the Knight mentions Lor San Tekka’s name, she startles.

_Why in the name of the heavens is my old Dejarik master here? And at my husband’s apparent command?_

She leans back against Kylo’s chest and banters gently, “Surely you have not decided to avenge your losses to me at the Dejarik boards on my old teacher, my lord husband?”

But Kylo neither jests nor returns her smile and she grows cold when he barks to the room at large, “Everyone out! This instant.”

He grips her waist implying she is exempt from his command and at a slight shake of his head to Hux’s querying gaze, indicates Hux is to remain, as well.

“Bring him,” Kylo demands to the Knight, who bows and exits the hall amid the shuffling, mildly surprised crowd of diners.

Rey’s heart is in her throat when a familiar old man is hustled none-too-gently before them and kicked into a kneel.

She withholds a gasp but cannot help but stiffen when their eyes meet briefly.

 _It’s really him,_ she thinks, mind spinning endlessly in search of an explanation for his presence.

“I don’t…understand, my lord,” Rey’s confusion couldn’t be more palpable. “Why is he here?”

Behind her, Kylo’s scent has grown dark with malevolence, and she forces herself to pay attention when he growls, “Lor San Tekka. Look how old you’ve become. Such a waste for you to languish on Jakku all this time. Surely a man with your unparalleled skill for warmongering might have been better suited to whiling away your hours on a holocron screen, plotting my defeat?”

San Tekka is watching Rey, not Kylo, but Rey is watching her husband, whose eyes glitter with fathomless calculation as he gazes upon the kneeling old man.

Rey breathes, "What? Who is he?"

“He is one of a dying breed. A Jedi acolyte of the Church of the Force and once my mother’s best military strategist.”

Shocked, Rey swivels to stare at him. _Jedi acolyte? Military strategist?_

“But…why?” she asks, unable to articulate her question. _Why did you never say anything to me?_

With a prod of his finger on her chin, Kylo turns her to face him and traps her with his questioning gaze, eyes flickering back and forth as if sweeping her mind for the truth.

“You never knew his true identity?”

Rey can feel her mouth hanging open and rallies herself. “I thought he was just a…”

“…an old curmudgeon who liked to bilk you out of rations and taught you a few tricks on the Dejarik boards,” San Tekka interrupts in his same, familiar gravelly voice.

Rey has a sudden, unexpected pang of homesickness. Jakku might have been lonely and miserable, but at least there she knew who she was…and here…she’s not so sure of anything anymore.

This is followed by a surge of guilt when she comprehends the only reason the old man kneels before them now is because she mentioned his name the night Kylo was called away by the High Priest.

San Tekka turns his attention to Kylo. “You may run from your past, but you cannot deny it forever.”

Kylo ignores his statement, but Rey senses a deep, boiling rage rising in him.

“Heed me carefully, old one,” Kylo whispers so lethally Rey grips his shoulder to keep from sinking into a faint. “You will answer my questions here and now, or I will draw your blood and rip the truth from your mind regardless. I would advise you that _particular_ procedure is wholly unpleasant.”

He bares his teeth with obvious relish at the notion of drawing blood. “How did you come to be on the same planet as my wife, the Golden Blood?”

San Tekka regards him quietly. “I am a lifelong student of the Jedi faith. Surely you know the cloister on Jakku is inhabited by likeminded people and–”

“Spare me the prevarication.”

“Your uncle Luke sent me there to live in isolation a few years after the fall of Vader. To avoid false prosecution for the war crimes I’d been accused of committing during the Rebellion.”

Beneath her, every muscle in Kylo’s frame tenses. “And Rey?”

San Tekka shakes his head. “She never knew me as anyone other than who I presented myself to be.”

“You would have me believe your proximity to her and your influence was pure happenstance?”

“You may believe what you will. I know you intend to execute me, but I have been preparing to make that sacrifice for a very long time.”

San Tekka’s eyes glow with a fervent fanaticism Rey recognizes from their many, many hours at the Dejarik tables in Niima.

“Were you responsible for aiding my uncle in his scheme to marry the Golden Blood? For assisting my mother in hiding her from me?”

San Tekka pales but does not relinquish his air of staunch determination. He keeps his gaze focused on Kylo, but Rey senses he speaks his next words to her.

“Eventually, we must all confront the decision to make a sacrifice so many might live free. We must remember where we come from. We cannot escape the truth of our parentage. I am happy to surrender my life, so long as others continue on the way they have been shown as the one true path.”

Kylo growls with murderous disdain, “I’m sure I ought to have expected nothing but brainwashed Jedi rantings from the likes of you. And yet I find myself disappointed, nevertheless.” He motions his Knight forward and mutters an aside, “You will escort my lady wife to the royal apartments.” He turns to Rey. “What comes next will not be a sight for your eyes, my love.”

Rey scrambles for a reason to stop what’s coming, knowing if she leaves her old mentor now, he will be given a brutal death. Despite his apparent duplicity and collusion with the Skywalkers and his long-ago stinginess over her rations, no one deserves to die so heinously.

But before she can formulate a plan, Hux speaks under his breath, “My lord, if you execute him now, it’s a guaranteed martyrdom and will only bolster your uncle’s claims in the Free Senate.”

“I abolished the fucking Senate!” Kylo roars, pounding his fist on the table, jostling Rey as he momentarily unleashes his temper to echo through the nearly empty hall.

Snatching up her remaining courage, Rey pipes in, “And yet a martyr will surely rally the Resistance, my lord. I beg you do not give them cause to act.”

“Are you quite sure you do not speak from sentiment?” Kylo probes with canny omniscience, “San Tekka figured somewhat prominently in your rather barren childhood, did he not?”

Kylo will show no mercy if she begs from a basis of nostalgia.

“The man used to charge me a full portion to play a few hours Dejarik, my lord. What sort of person demands such a thing from a child? I have no sympathies for him.”

Kylo cocks his head. Hux remains impassive, yet Rey senses the barest trace of approval. She pushes forward, “You must do as you see fit, my lord. But I fear if you kill him now, our people will not love you for it.”

“And what of you, my lady?”

Rey swallows her pride and says the words she knows he seeks to hear.

“I will love you, regardless, my lord. Of course, I would hope you already know that.”

His eyes snap with black fire as he peruses her for a long moment. “You may prove it soon enough when we retire to bed, I suppose.”

Next to her Hux snickers, and she blushes furiously, gritting her teeth against an ill-advised retort. 

San Tekka remains bowed and Kylo asks a few short questions of his Knights while he considers the old man’s fate.

“Where did you find him?”

“An unnamed village within half a day’s walk to Niima, Master Ren.”

“How was the village provisioned?”

“Provisioned by the Resistance, apparently.”

“And the villagers?”

“They appeared to be quite well armed for a supposedly innocuous, desert-dwelling tribe, master.”

“They were well-fortified? Well supplied?”

“Yes, master. In truth, it more closely resembled a military encampment.”

“Indeed? Well, if my uncle and mother are in any way involved, it is likely a breeding ground for rebellion. Send a squadron to raze it to the ground.”

“Yes, master.”

San Tekka finally lifts his head, naked fear on his face when another Knight asks, “What of the villagers, master?”

“Kill them all.”

Rey almost shouts an objection, but San Tekka is already being dragged unceremoniously to the dungeons and Kylo’s roiling emotions are drifting around her in heavy waves, warning her to hold her tongue.

Hux stands, excusing himself with a pointed glance at the carved box, which Rey snatches up before jumping from Kylo’s lap to flee to the royal apartments.

But not before she overhears Hux’s sneering, “Her ladyship seems most anxious to convey her gratitude, Supreme Leader,” and Kylo stalks after, hot on her heels.

The box she carries is heavy with the weight of the ruby and Rey reminds herself no matter how many gifts the Supreme Leader gives her, it will never buy back the lives spent fighting the First Order.

Leia would tell her to seize control and would wholeheartedly rebuke her for not using Kylo's current emotional turmoil to advance her cause. And Rey knows Leia would be right.

 _Is_ right.

Kylo Ren is a cruel tyrant, and his most recent atrocity should only emphasize _that_ point.

He’s ruthless, unpredictable.

 _He’s a bloodthirsty monster_ , she thinks, uncomfortably aware he’s already executed someone this day.

The Alpha who accosted her in the tunnels would not have died an easy death under her husband’s hands.

_Find a way to harness that rabid disposition of his before he tries to interrogate you again. You need to play with much more cunning than this…_

Instinctively, she realizes he will not use compulsion on her; he’s holding back from it, likely because of what happened this morning when they…connected somehow.

_He’s afraid. Doesn’t want me to see whatever it is in his head…whatever I almost saw earlier…_

This is a weapon she can use.

_Knowledge is power._

Something inside her awakens, just as it had when facing down Canady. Then, she had known what to say to incite Kylo against the man and ensure his doom, just as she knows what to do now.

She doesn’t question it; she simply follows her intuition.

Grasping the first thought that comes to mind is easy, and she makes a show of displeasure, knowing it will throw him off course. As they enter his bedchamber, she allows her anger free reign, stomping to his dressing table and one-handedly ripping pins from her hair so violently, little locks of hair stick out from her braids.

He moves to help her, but she spins and tempestuously slaps his hand away.

Incredulous, he steps back and stares. “Problem?”

She glares at him as if she wants to run him through, and briefly considers trying to disarm him. But, no.

There’s a better way.

“You… _pig!_ How _dare_ you speak to me thus in front of your own general? And allow him to speak so crudely of me?” Her voice vibrates with fury and Kylo looks immediately confused.

_Perfect._

“What?”

“Treating me as if I’m some Corellian _whore_ who might perform… _favors_ for a trinket!”

She tosses the box she’s been gripping onto his dressing table with a spiteful flourish, causing the ruby inside to rattle conspicuously.

His cheeks heighten with a flush of color and she knows she’s struck her mark.

But he’s not nearly riled enough to suit her purposes. He flings himself into a chair and shucks his boots, pitching them carelessly aside.

“Where in the _worlds_ did you learn about Corellia’s whores? Certainly not from your so-called tutors.”

“I know more than you think!” she retorts with a hostile glare. He laughs, but darkly, and something ominous slithers down her spine.

Before she can go on, he goads, “You always seem to enjoy bestowing your _favors_ on me, rather enthusiastically, for all my uncouthness.”

_Bastard._

“Only if I’m awake for it!” she snaps, turning to the mirror over his dressing table and dragging his comb through her hair with shaking hands.

Now his voice carries a trace of malice, though he keeps his words softly spoken. “You weren’t complaining this morning. As I recall.”

“Pffft! I couldn’t very well complain when I was hardly conscious, could I?”

This does more than touch a nerve, and his eyes flash with warning as he moves to loom behind her, staring her down in the mirror’s reflection.

“You were conscious enough to beg me quite prettily,” he bites, ducking his chin and sighting in on her like a wolf preparing to lunge for the kill.

 _Be careful, Rey._ “Ha! I hardly spoke a word!”

He seems to grow larger as his fury multiplies. She can feel his body heat rolling into her, along with his primitive scent. Which is quite intimidating.

“And yet you _did_ speak, though I’ve still been granted nothing more than a half-baked excuse for your outright disobedience which cost a soldier his life and put you _and_ our unborn child in harm’s way.”

He scowls with such malevolence, she feels the color drain from her face.

_Tread lightly, now._

She backs away, leading him from the dressing table.

And, like the predator he is, prey in flight is irresistible.

He prowls close, slightly rabid at the scent of her excitement, which he’s likely reading as fear.

Which would be a _very_ accurate interpretation.

_…give him a worthy hunt…so long as you let him catch you..._

She cannot see behind her as she continues to step back until her legs bump the arm of a chair.

 _Damn_. Not quite where she’d been aiming to go.

She holds his gaze defiantly, though her rapid breathing draws his attention to her breasts. She can feel her nipples harden through the satin bodice of her gown and she catches the scent of arousal mixing with his ire.

“Apparently, you still have some lessons to learn, wife.”

“You… _heathen_ mongrel! Stay away from me!”

Never one to ignore a challenge, he calmly snatches her up and carries her flailing to his bed.

She scrambles to her knees, making a show of spitting rage and snags a book from his nightstand to hurl at his head. He handily ducks away before he slowly peels off his jacket.

“Don’t you _dare_ …don’t you even think of getting into this bed,” she growls.

“Ah. I think I’ll dare what I please. You forget to whom you are speaking, woman.”

“I do not!”

He unbuttons his shirt with deliberate calm and her pulse ratchets up.

“I will claw your eyes out,” she threatens.

_Gods, he’s so huge and scary and…oh, Rey, what are you doing?_

Too late, she tries to scramble away, but her legs tangle in the voluminous petticoats under her gown.

His joyless chuckle seems to freeze her in place, and he crawls onto the bed. Cornered, she scoots back until she’s pressed against the headboard.

“In the interest of keeping my eyes in my head, it appears I have no choice.”

When she realizes what he means to do, she aims a kick at his arrogant face, but he pounces before she can make contact. It only takes a brief scuffle before he has her pinned beneath him, though he’s panting.

_Good Alpha. Right where I want you…I think._

“I’m glad to have your full attention at last,” he says quietly, pressing her face into the bed. He clucks his tongue and scolds, “You, my darling, seem to have a terrible time remembering who’s in charge.”

_Oh, I know precisely who’s in charge. You won’t hurt me, for all your bluster._

He straddles her legs and leans close to murmur, “Perhaps you need reminding of just how much you _enjoyed_ what we did this morning…?”

A lovely, terrible ache swishes through her. She _did_ enjoy it all too much, though she’d rather die than admit it now. So, she bellows, “I am not some whore to be used whenever you feel like flaunting your beastly temper!”

“Yet if I choose to treat you so, you’ll lie back and get fucked like one,” he croons in her ear.

“I will not!”

_Distract. Turn this to your favor, dammit. You’ve trained for exactly this scenario._

Well. Not _exactly_ this. But, still.

She lurches beneath him and, when she rears back with unexpected vehemence, she nearly cracks his skull with hers.

“Gods _dammit_ ,” he snarls, bracing a forearm across the back of her neck, “Do that again and I swear to Zeus you’ll regret it.”

Though he radiates a fearsome hostility, he will not do more than hold her in place, thanks to her pregnancy. She knows it.

Even as she wonders if it would be overkill to beg him not to hurt her, he eases his hold and remarks, “I would continue our earlier…discussion,” turning her to face him.

Their discussion had been much more along the lines of an interrogation…but, yes, she needs to give him her version of what happened.

“You will explain _exactly_ what transpired in the tunnels while I was away.”

_Deflect and redirect._

She allows unshed tears to fill her gaze and he appears slightly perplexed.

“Did you kill that poor soldier?” she whispers.

He gives her a short nod, nothing more. He’s stern and erratically moody, but the wicked edge of his wrath seems to be blunted by her distress.

As she well suspected it would.

“I’ll not wait forever,” he pries, but more gently. “Tell me everything.”

He shifts again and she takes a deep breath, her story ready on her tongue.

_If you must lie, best to make the lie rooted in truth. Keep it simple._

“It was just before dinner, and Phasma had been called away.” _True_.

Even without compulsion, his eyes drill into her rather formidably, prompting her to keep talking.

She goes on, “I’d been dining in the hall with the rest of the court during your absence. Trying to establish a bit of order before our guests and delegates and dignitaries start arriving for the ball.” _True_.

“You really find our court’s endless indiscretions so disturbing?” he murmurs with the barest hint of humor. He can’t seem to help nuzzling at her scent gland, despite his lingering temper.

_Yes._

“I was rather hoping you would find my efforts pleasing, my lord.” _Partially true, dammit_ , though she only tells herself her actions are more to establish control than to please _him_.

“So, you were left on your own? Where were the guards outside your rooms? Why did they not escort you directly?”

“I lied and told them I was already late. I rushed out so quickly, they just let me go…” _Partially true._

Actually, she’d been working on a plan for days and had only been waiting for an opportunity to present itself. When it did, she’d pricked her finger with a pin and let the blood drip into the palm of her hand until she had enough to confuse her guards and slip away.

That had been an eye-opening experience, learning the Omicrons are not impervious to her scent, so long as it is directly under their noses and she catches them by surprise.

“I would have them all strung up on the palace steps, though I suspect they were rather convinced you would behave,” Kylo grunts, likely considering having them summarily executed for dereliction. “They may keep their lives, though I will have them reprimanded for their lax regard to my standing orders.”

Rey nods, relieved.

“Well, I didn’t mean to cause such an ordeal,” she pleads. _True_. “I only intended to pop down to the kitchens through the entry where you took me that day…remember?”

She blinks up at him, recalling the first time she had ice cream. A smile twitches the corner of his mouth, albeit reluctantly. But it is progress.

“Why the kitchens?”

“It’s the only place I could think of where there might be servants who perhaps have heard of Rose. Someone who might know how to reach her.” _Lie_.

She’d been looking for a communications panel, preferably one that could access the undetectable back-door program she’d planted on Kylo’s flagship. She’d programmed it for access months ago, the day she helped Leia escape. She's just never been left alone long enough to try to use it.

“You suspected you were pregnant and wanted to let Rose know?”

“Yes.” _Partially true._

She had suspected her pregnancy when she came down ill with morning sickness and her breasts had been terribly tender during her gown fitting. And when the seamstress had made a comment about it…she’d known.

But she hadn’t been trying to warn Rose. She had been trying to get word to Leia.

“Well, anyhow. The tunnels are terribly confusing, and I got turned around.” _Lie_.

“You should not have gone there unescorted,” he scolds.

He still glowers a bit but is unconsciously stroking a long finger over her collarbone now, not pinning her down. His scent has lightened from blistering rage to moderate annoyance, and more than a touch of sexual interest, as well.

She tries not to become distracted.

“I know…I should have waited for you to return to the palace, but…” Tears fill her eyes again. Damn the hormones, though they do seem to be helping her ability to cry on demand. “…but…I…”

_I had to warn Leia. We have no time. We are out of time._

“Why did that Alpha touch you? You are marked as mine and he should not have done so without provocation.”

“I was disoriented and turned a corner too quickly and accidentally scraped my arm on the rough stone…and he couldn’t help it…he caught scent of my blood and…Isn’t that what he told you? Before you…killed him?” Rey sniffs, only half-playacting.

“He swore he didn’t remember a gods-damned thing.”

_Good._

Because if that guard ever revealed how she’d managed to convince him to lead her to a panel and send an encrypted message using the subspace frequencies aboard Kylo’s ship, currently docked in the royal hangar, it would have drawn much more than unwelcome suspicion.

She’d chosen a random, isolated Alpha, knowing he would be a casualty of war the instant she was caught out of bounds. She’d scraped her arm, _after_ , trying to escape when he’d attempted to grope her. Because she’d given him a few whiffs of her blood and entranced him into helping her.

Kylo’s eyes darken but before his frightening temperament returns, she reminds him the offender is dead.

“Well, he didn’t hurt me, Ben. He just grabbed my arm, probably to take me back upstairs and then…”

More guards had come running and Phasma, too, and she’d been brought immediately back to Kylo’s rooms, pretending to be too upset to go to dinner.

And then the Phoenix had made contact within the week.

Her husband hovers, staring down with surly doubt, as if he still doesn’t quite trust her version of the events.

“You were _quite_ distraught, according to Phasma,” he replies, skepticism threaded through his tone. “Her accounting would have me believe he’d done more than take hold of your arm…”

“Well, I’m sure it doesn’t help I’m so damned tearful and emotional lately. I was probably o-over-overreacting…”

The stress of the day finally floods into her and she begins to sob in earnest, burying her face in the crook of his arm where his scent is potent and she can hear his heartbeat.

Although he remains swathed in fragments of deadly shadow, he seems to be unwillingly softening towards her.

She sniffs again but says nothing, knowing it’s best to let him carry on with making his own conclusions from what she’s given him.

“I’ve upset you dreadfully, haven’t I?” he finally asks. “I shouldn’t have been so callous in front of Hux.”

“…and you’ve been so gloomy - after being gone and leaving me alone for a whole week with no explanation…” she snuffles, layering on a trace of guilt, though her observation is true enough.

“I think perhaps my recent ailment has made me a bit uncivilized. I shall endeavor to be more considerate.”

His scent grows a bit lighter, slightly more relaxed and he bends to inhale, close to the side of her neck. His breath is warm and her belly flutters wildly when he kisses her scent gland.

“I will not hold you to any expectations, sweetheart, of favors or otherwise. I meant to give you a gift and certainly did not intend to make you cry. Forgive me?”

Perhaps her heart is pounding just a touch too fiercely at his plea, and she blinks the tears from her eyes and gives him a shaky smile.

_He’ll never forgive me when this is over. Never._

_But I’ve already made my promises and unbreakable vows. So many are depending on me. Whole systems._

Cautiously, he dips his head to press a soft kiss to her mouth. His breath is ambrosia on her tongue, and he sighs gently when she returns his kiss.

“Perhaps it is I who owes you the favor, since you will be gifting me with a much more valuable prize before the year’s end?” he murmurs with a coaxing smile.

_The Resistance is your family now. The only family you will ever have._

She presses her lips together to keep from divulging the truth, from telling him her worst fears, that Leia and Luke need much more time and...

It’s going to make her sick if she thinks about it too hard.

_Don’t think about that. Think about it later._

Jedi aren’t supposed to form emotional attachments for a reason, and she knows damned well why.

Though she fears it is too late and her own fault for forgetting, even for a moment, why she is here.

“What would you have of me, sweetheart? I’d lay all the worlds at your feet, if that is what you wish.”

“Ben,” she whispers, heartbroken. _Don’t do that. Don’t be sweet and kind…I don’t deserve it and you’ll hate me so much more later…_

She tries to find her center of focus, to recall her Jedi training. 

But she can’t seem to hold her determination to stay aloof when he kisses her again, plundering the softness of her mouth until she’s quivering and moaning and the insistent push of his tongue sweeps all from her mind but the sensation of him moving over her.

She might yet do terrible things in the name of freedom for the Resistance.

But maybe she can have this for a little while. Something to hold onto through the lonely nights.

If she survives.

This is all she’s going to get, and these days will end soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Okay. You are probably wondering what the heck is going on with the chapter count and the fact that we aren't even CLOSE to finishing any of the arcs in this story; I will freely admit I am the WORST at estimating this sort of thing, HOWEVER, after doing lots and lots of work on my outline and having a breakthrough, I have decided we are going to get this story in three parts.
> 
> When developing a long story like this, the most important thing is timing. So we've already had our initial build-up, climax, and denouement within the larger context of the story, but so far Part One has been mostly build-up. For those of you who hate suspense...I apologize. (Not really, LOL, I live for this shit!) For those of you who have been following this tale for a while and are feeling frustrated with a lack of answers, I hear you and I'm not being coy when I say, "All in good time." (Okay, maybe a little coy.)
> 
> Please believe I have EVERY intention of fleshing out as much as I can while maintaining an exciting pace and keeping the smut interesting and also hopefully holding your curiosity. And remember I can't hold off forever. We are going to get the answers, particularly to the one gaping hole in the story: WHY THE HECK DID SHE LEAVE HIM AND WHAT HAPPENED TO MAKE THEM SO PISSED AT EACH OTHER?
> 
> It's coming. Promise. And in the meantime, I am thrilled that so many of you are picking up on the hints (some not-so-subtle) in the story and in the tags. For the most part, ya'll are right on track. That doesn't mean we won't be getting a few (hopefully fun) surprises. 
> 
> For those of you worried about how this all ends (i.e. will it be a TRoS tragic ending?), I would ask you to read the tags and read between the lines. (Also, if you've ever read any of my other works, you will know that I try to fairly tag my stories from the get-go with the big stuff.)
> 
> Speaking of tags: I'm still dithering about going full non-con with a certain part of the story. So we remain on "Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings" for now, but also keep those tags in mind and remember this is going to get dark. Maybe not as dark as some of my other stuff, but you get the idea. If I think something calls for an additional content warning, you can expect to find it at the beginning of the chapter. I am NOT going to spring anything wildly unexpected on you, but neither will I give up too many spoilers from here on out. 
> 
> My plan is to continue to update regularly, but I do write each chapter one at a time before I post and I've been dealing with the most unbelievable crap in my real life. (Also, for my non-American readers, please understand that the current political climate here is utterly depressing and sometimes makes me want to crawl into a hole and cry.) So it has been a bit tough to be motivated to write these past weeks, although I really am trying to keep a good pace going for you all because you are the best and you make me feel so very humbled and honored and proud to be doing something like this.
> 
> So. In summary, you all are wonderful, I am unbelievably wowed by your responses, and I am SO EXCITED to have arrived at this point. My heart absolutely THRILLS every time I see a new comment, so please keep those coming because they really do fuel me, and I hope to be caught up on replies from the last chapter very soon.
> 
> Thank you thank you, and all the love! XOXO!!!
> 
> -Amy B.


	20. Weight of Rule

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a reminder, please read the tags.

# Chapter Twenty – Weight of Rule

“Gods’ teeth. You look good enough to eat.”

Her eyes flash up to meet his, and Phasma steps away, fading into the background.

Rey stands next to the vanity in her bedchamber, finally attired in her much fussed-over ballgown, now perfectly fitted to her figure, thanks to many hours of painstaking, last-minute alterations by the seamstress.

As it always does when Kylo is near, his scent weaves around her to inspire a tantalizing mixture of anticipation and comfort and inevitable dark mystery.

Once again, Phasma has worked a miracle with cosmetics; Rey’s skin glows softly in the light, and her eyes sparkle. The barest hint of red colors her lips, drawing the eye.

Though her skirts arc wide, filled out by hoops set to spread the fabric far to either side of her, she still feels far too exposed.

Her hair is heavy, swept into an artful mass of braids and curls she never would have managed without the assistance of Phasma and two other maids. Blood-red strands of ribbon are threaded through to match her gown.

The gown itself is a wonder, with a low-cut décolletage that swoops into off-the-shoulder sleeves and exposes her upper back and the bite scars on her neck. Her arms are gloved past the elbow in red satin so dark it appears almost black in the low light.

Phasma murmurs, “Good evening, my lord, my lady,” and slides from the room, obscure as always.

After the panel in the wall glides shut, Kylo pulls a large, flat box from behind his back and makes a show of extracting a key from his pocket.

 _What is that?_ she wonders.

“You truly look like a goddess, my love,” he says, careful not to disturb the artful folds of her gown as he circles around her. “Thus I would have you be adorned as one.”

Unbidden curiosity distracts her as he sets the box on her vanity, inserts the key, and pops the hinge. Her breath escapes in a shocked rush when she views the box’s contents.

Glinting from a bed of rich, blue velvet rests Padmé Amidala’s infamous rubies, originally a gift from the former Empress's husband just weeks before her untimely death. The jewels are undoubtedly beautiful, although rumored to be cursed.

Rey recognizes the distinctive shine of Mandalorian _Beskar_ , a metal so rare and precious the entire planet of Mandalore was once held hostage over it, as it is the galaxy’s only source of the stuff.

But as fascinating as the settings may be, the gems inevitably draw the eye.

Deep, blood-red rubies drip lavishly from a tiered, choker-style necklace, forty-eight of them, each the size of Rey’s thumbnail, from which hangs a massive cushion-cut ruby nearly the size of a Sabacc deck.

Carefully, Kylo drapes the jewels around her neck and fastens the clasp mechanism.

The brush of his fingers is warm but the jewels are cold against her skin, and Rey tries to ignore the ominous sensation of being collared.

“It’s so heavy!” she exclaims, touching the precious gem at her throat with a bit of awe. The ruby he gave her last week pales in comparison to the center stone, and Rey guesses the entire worth of the necklace is well beyond all the wealth of Jakku.

“Do you like it?” he asks with heart-wrenching eagerness. “I had to hire an armed guard to bring it up from the vault of the High Church, just for tonight. The jewels belonged to my grandmother. Estimated to be valued at more than even the High Priest’s sceptre.”

Rey swallows and replies, “It's lovely, my lord.”

He lifts a mocking brow.

“It's lovely, _Ben_ ,” she amends.

_The equivalent wealth of an entire planetary system hangs around my neck. Not to mention the weight of the galaxy’s future._

Two cuff bracelets lay in the velvet lining, as well, also set in _Beskar_ , which Kylo clasps around her gloved wrists, one after the other. The earbobs are almost too much extravagance, but they match perfectly. Rey immediately realizes her gown and Kylo’s dress coat have been designed around these jewels.

His eyes glint like the rubies as he surveys her with apparent satisfaction, and she feels a sudden unworthiness, a treacherous lack of confidence.

_I’m a nobody from nowhere. Canady was right, I’m nothing more than a dirty scavenger. What am I doing here?_

“You will outshine even the Knotted Moon this evening.”

She’s having trouble catching her breath. Not even Leia Organa has worn her mother’s rubies or even seen them in person.

 _These jewels could buy an army of Mandalorians and fund them to fight for the Resistance for years,_ Rey thinks, though she knows realistically she would never get the gems off the planet, let alone broker a deal with the notorious Mandalorian mercenaries. The jewels’ extraordinary fame makes a powerful deterrent against theft, especially when combined with Kylo Ren’s well-renowned temperament for possessiveness and vengeance.

True to form, Hades is predictable, and none would be willing to risk his wrath...likely not even the Mandalorians themselves.

“Shall we?” he asks, seeming to read her thoughts and finding himself amused.

Kylo takes her hand and Rey lifts her chin, allowing him to promenade her from their rooms through the small gallery into the Great Hall.

They pass under the painting in the royal antechamber and she refuses to look up, knowing the glamorous rendering of the two of them will only add to the sudden wave of insecurity and dread swamping her.

 _You are unmatched_ , she tries to remind herself, though the mantra rings hollow.

As they make their way to the Great Hall, already packed with guests if the light rumble of hundreds of voices is any indication, Rey notes the sparkling lanterns strung about and the clean-scented air brushing across her skin. She ordered eucalyptus plants imported from Byss to be distributed throughout the wind tunnels, and the air smells much better throughout the palace, although the city streets of Coruscant still reek with the looming Knotted Moon.

As the moon waxes full, so does her tension, even if the last week was packed from the moment she woke until her head hit her pillow late each night.

Kylo was similarly occupied, and though he faithfully attended Church early every morning, he promised once the High Priest is no longer in residence on Coruscant, his spiritual obligations will ease.

But until now, Rey has had no time to worry over her husband’s near-obsession with Church, nor her own growing sense of impending doom as each day of her pregnancy progresses.

The day following San Tekka’s imprisonment, guests began arriving at the palace, and Rey had no shortage of tasks to keep her busy. She did her best to ensure everyone was properly greeted and accommodated according to rank, and she silently thanked her tutors for expanding her education in this regard. She might not have learned the details of running the royal household, but she was raised to understand politics, if nothing else. 

As they arrived, Rey was pleased and humbly shocked at how many of her guests knew of her play at the Dejarik tables; this elicited good-natured grumblings from Kylo and more than a few jokes at his expense, which he seemed to endure with remarkable aplomb, considering his ferocious competitive streak.

He made himself available to greet higher-ranking guests and his menacing demeanor waned, much to her relief. Rey suspects a connection between his volatility and his religious practices, but her mind has been too occupied to ponder the conundrum closely, other than to note her husband’s attitude significantly improved.

Still, her work was daunting and slightly terrifying; never before has she wielded such authority, although everyone around her seemed to take her leadership without question. It did not escape her that Leia’s training covered a variety of useful topics, reinforcing the scale of responsibility with which Leia has entrusted her on behalf of the Resistance.

The logistics of feeding and housing everyone has been the main focus, and while Rey might once have believed the ice room held enough food stores to last a lifetime, she found herself fretting over the state of their larders and whether there would be enough to get them all through the week.

She spent many hours in her sitting room with Mitaka and Phasma, well before her guests woke each day, rehashing endless details. ‘ _Yes, the representative from Mon Calimari will never cross paths with the Quarren emissary’_ and ‘ _Of course_ _we must have plenty of Rylothian whisky on hand for Ambassador Yendor._ ’

So, when she found Lady Bazine behind the statue of Artemis in the corridor by the Great Hall, skirts up and Lord Kaplan once again rutting between the woman’s legs, Rey took them both to task none-too-gently, fearing the court’s scandalously lewd behavior would only provide fodder for gossip among the galaxy’s more talkative and prudish noble houses.

Despite _that_ incident, the courtiers have adapted to their new lady’s requests for decorum with surprising alacrity, for the most part.

Half the guests will retire after the ball when the moon waxes full, but the Betas and other guests not planning to succumb to a heat or rut will be in need of entertainment over the days to come. Rey has planned a few excursions to view the city’s markets and noble houses, as well as commissioned troupes of entertainers and musicians to liven up the palace with music and laughter from sunup until well into the night.

The more pious of them will wish to attend either Church or temple as their religious preferences dictate, and those in search of bawdier entertainment will be provided transport to some of the better gambling and whoring districts in the City.

Regardless of her worries, a celebratory atmosphere has encompassed the palace, embued with an indefinable excitement, and after the ball, Rey plans to linger and enjoy the lovely palace grounds alongside her guests, even with her constant escort of Omicrons. Their renewed vigilance would annoy her if she did not know she could slip past them at any time.

But, Rey’s hours were too full, so much so that by the end of each day she fell readily into bed alongside Kylo, who also seemed too exhausted for anything but a brief kiss before they snuggled together for a few hours of sleep.

Every morning, after coordinating the day’s events, Mitaka gave her a brief drill in dancing. They were forced to remove themselves to the royal antechamber since the small ballroom inexorably had guests wandering through.

Though she no longer fears tripping over her feet and making a fool of herself, she still fights the occasional bout of morning sickness which strikes in the afternoon and forces her to lie down for an hour or two before dressing for dinner.

_Thank the gods today’s spell was not so bad and I will not be nauseous this evening._

“You’ve done an outstanding job, sweetheart. Truly.”

Kylo escorts her with his typical self-assurance and an invisible fist squeezes her heart when she casts another surreptitious glance over him.

He is so attractive it makes her teeth ache.

His coat matches her gown and is opulently trimmed with gold braid. Under his embroidered waistcoat he wears blindingly white linen, and, most appealingly, a pair of form-fitting black breeches that distinctly outline his… _better_ assets. She cannot decide which she prefers more: The strong outline of his muscled calves in stockings or the appeal of his large, handsomely formed feet clad in elegant dancing shoes.

As ever, his heady scent intoxicates her with an indefinable woodsy spice, enhanced by the turning of the moon. 

The moon waxes full tonight, but Rey will not face another heat, thanks to her pregnancy. Still, the guests and courtiers all seem affected one way or another, and Rey was interested to find several ladies of her court quietly announcing their own pregnancies resulting from the wedding day debauch.

“Are you certain all is up to par?” she asks nervously, eyeing the stiffly regimented Omicrons predictably lining the gallery with their usual impenetrable stoicism.

“I think so, my darling. The sight of you alone will thrill the people and give them something to brighten their days…and I daresay what you’ve managed so far surpasses even the events held here in my grandfather’s time.”

Rey knows he means to compliment her, but his comment casts a vague pall over the evening, nonetheless.

_We are yet under martial law. The people surely need more than the thought of a royal fete to cheer them._

Instead, she replies lightly, “Mitaka tells me our first dance must cover as much of the floor as possible to bless each part of the galaxy.”

Kylo sounds amused and surprised. “He’s right. It is said the more ground we cover, the greater shall be the harvest reaped next season.”

They pause briefly to be announced to the Great Hall, and her head swims with an unexpected thrill as her guests turn as one to view them.

Kylo leads her to the center of the Hall, and their glittering, smiling guests move to the sidelines to make room for their ceremonial dance.

For just a moment, Rey forgets everything but the look in his eyes as he takes her hand, walking in a half-circle around her to stand palm to palm at the very center of the galaxy.

And her worries fall away entirely when he sweeps her into his arms and dances her over the glimmering, luminescent floor with devastating, exhilarating grace.

“Hera sends her regards. May I?”

She stiffens infinitesimally when he takes her offered hand, but her dislike is not visible.

The ball proceeds apace, a grand success. Rey is brought quickly back to reality at General Hux’s quiet greeting.

She can tell he is assessing every bit of her body language and expression. Anyone looking on would never guess her immediate revulsion.

_There is no emotion, there is peace._

“You’re good at hiding your feelings,” he tells her as he leads her onto the dance floor. “But not much for considering the future, are you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

His eyes penetrate hers with laser-like focus, and he intones quietly, “ _Hera_ needs at least another year to become a viable threat, and I’m set to be at the battlefront shortly and utterly useless in Coruscant for half a year, minimum. This pregnancy of yours is not well done.”

“He’s been watching me like a hawk! I'm guarded night and day. I…didn’t have a chance to –”

Hux cuts her off with the tiniest shake of his head and a caustic, “Does your mistress allow such rampant excuses? Pathetic.”

Rey holds herself rigidly in position at the deadly chill in his voice, even as the tiniest part of her admires his ability to speak such horrid sentiments whilst appearing so charming and outwardly kind.

The music begins, floating gently to her ears, and she silently thanks Mitaka for drilling her so well.

_There is no ignorance, there is knowledge._

“You didn’t have time to take precautions,” he mimics with barely obvious disgust. “Well. You must reverse the damages immediately. You will _take care of it_ before a larger problem manifests itself. Nobody wants the Supreme Leader in a position of uncontested authority, or have you so quickly forgotten his grandfather’s disastrous regime?”

He's a good dancer. Hux twirls them through the throng with haughty poise and a vague smile as he rebukes her. She holds her tongue, knowing he’s right.

Vader’s reign brought horror and death to the galaxy in numbers unmatched only by The Great Devastation itself.

“And just how am I supposed to… _take care_ of it?” she grits out.

“Get. Rid. Of. It.” He smiles and his teeth flash white.

“Whose idea is this?” she hisses through an answering smile.

“Mostly mine.”

“And… _Hera_ agrees?”

“She doesn’t love the concept but yes, she agrees.”

Rey glances around. Thankfully, Kylo only watches from the corner of his eye, as Admiral Ackbar is half-drunk and demanding most of his attention.

“How do I trust it won’t be used against me in the future?”

_What if Kylo finds out?_

“I don’t care,” Hux speaks softly, “but if you think he’ll forgive you for _any_ of this if it ever comes out, you might only look as far as the palace steps to discern the extent of his merciful inclinations.”

“I don’t understand,” Rey breathes, stepping lightly despite the chaos in her heart.

“Don’t be obtuse. His father? Han Solo? Brutally executed for nothing more than passing a few reports back to Kylo Ren's own mother? Whom he intends to imprison at first opportunity? Not to mention what he did to his uncle...Ren's treatment of his own flesh and blood does not bode well for you, does it?”

An unwelcome memory of her nightmare flashes through her mind.

_Why must I destroy everything I love?_

Rey has no response other than, "I'm not sure I can...do such a thing."

Hux watches her emotions cross her face with shrewd awareness. “Please believe if you are unable to muster the fortitude to do it yourself, I will take care of the problem for you. And you may be assured _my_ way will be decidedly less pleasant than swallowing your potion like a good girl.”

“Potion?” She can’t think under the weight of his warning and the rapid pounding of her heart beneath the massive ruby bumping gently against her chest. She can see Hux is resolute, even if his promise is delivered with a charming grin and another twirl.

“Take the vial from my inner coat pocket on the next turn,” he instructs. He squeezes her fingers hard enough to crush them, and Rey understands the implication loud and clear. Still, she cannot bring herself to do it when he dances them into a spin.

Hux’s grip grows hard as iron and he snarls, “There are very few things I am _not_ prepared to do, princess, to see my ends met. Take the fucking potion at the _next_ turn. If I’m forced to act, I can guarantee a great deal of collateral damage.”

_The Phoenix is neither your friend, nor partner, nor ally._

He spins them into a series of turns and Rey slips her hand inside his coat and tucks the small vial she finds into her cleavage before anyone can see.

For the first time, Hux’s eyes light with cruel approval.

“Well _done_ , princess,” he sneers. “It will take effect within a day. Undetectable in a scan. Appear as an accident of nature.”

“How do I know it won’t kill me?”

“Spare me your histrionic enquiries. If I wanted you dead, I would certainly use less convoluted means to accomplish the task.”

Rey fights a chill, recalling a time when Kylo Ren said nearly the same thing to her.

_This is fucking dangerous. Keep your head._

“Where did you find this? This potion?” she murmurs.

“Is there anything at all between those ears of yours, I wonder?” he scoffs. “I assure you I wasn’t hanging around the bloody Scrum for my health last week.”

_Ah. The Scrum. When he found my phoenix box._

She can tell by the music their dance is nearly ended. Never has she simultaneously dreaded and looked forward to something so much.

“I’ll do it,” she whispers, “but you must do me a favor in return.”

He throws his head back with a robust bark of laughter, sharp as a blade, and a few heads turn their way, having no idea of the horrible conversation occurring in their very midst.

The air is becoming increasingly scented with lust and anticipation as the moon outside grows round and full, its eerie white light pouring through the windows of the hall to light the painted ceiling.

Beneath her, the floor glitters and glows as the dancers glide across the rippling sea of light.

“I’m not in the favor-granting business.”

“A gesture of good faith, then.”

“Now I’m even less inclined.”

“Spare San Tekka’s life, and I’ll do it.”

He bites out, “I was under the impression you are here _willingly_ and sworn to do perform faithfully in whatever your cause requires of you?”

She holds his icy regard as the music ends.

_There is no passion, there is serenity._

“Hera might find him useful. Send San Tekka to her,” Rey insists, threading a bit of steel into her gaze. Hux seems to hesitate and she prods, “We share a common cause, even if we are not allies.”

His eyes pierce hers as he contemplates, and she suddenly feels as if she’s standing in the ice room in the tunnels below.

“Very well,” Hux agrees. “But I will not assist San Tekka until I know you’ve done it. And in the future, you might consider taking precautions _before_ you spread your legs for _him_ again.”

She senses Kylo making his way to her, having finally extracted himself from Ackbar’s endless, perambulating storytelling. Hux bows over her hand with a dignified genuflect, his parting kiss hovering precisely over her glove with the proper aloof respect, but Kylo’s eyes darken with jealousy, regardless.

Hux makes a gracious show of passing her hand to Kylo’s, and though entirely appropriate, Kylo seems rankled by the gesture.

“When do you ship out?” he grumbles to the red-haired man, scanning Rey from head to toe as if her dancing with his general has left her tarnished somehow.

_He has no idea._

Hux replies neutrally, “I expect when the High Priest returns to Mustafar, my lord. He prefers a military escort, as you know. I believe he intends to leave Coruscant immediately after performing the blessing ceremony for her ladyship’s happy expectations on the morrow.”

_Ugh. I have to go to High Church in the morning, that’s right. Damn._

“Thank you very much for the dance, my lady, and I wish you all the best, my lord. My lady.”

Hux leaves them with a brusque bend at the waist and Rey watches his shoulders cut a swath through the crowd as Kylo looms close.

“I dislike the scent of another man on you, even traces of it,” he complains.

Rey rallies herself and smiles up at him. “I’ve danced with half the men in attendance tonight my lord. Surely one more nameless face cannot compare to the scent of yours mixed with mine forever?”

His eyes flash with a touch of avarice as he leans in and sniffs at her neck, whispering, “I confess I shall cherish the memory of attaining _that_ moment until my dying day.”

She shivers and a wave of heat and sickening guilt floods her. If she does as is required and swallows whatever is in the vial tucked in her bosom-

She tries to tamp down her burgeoning dismay before he catches the subtle shift of panic in her scent.

But Kylo’s eyes are glowing with increasing arousal, and she surreptitiously glances at the windows. The moon will reach its zenith at midnight and shine through the highest peak of the Great Hall, illuminating the entire room. She has been told it is quite a spectacle. 

But, it is not there yet, although she feels herself rather wishing it was. Once they exit the ball she hopes there will be time to grasp a few final moments of comfort, alone with her husband before she unleashes…

_Hell. This is going to be pure hell._

“I feel it, too,” Kylo muses, dark eyes crawling over her with unconcealed hunger. “Perhaps a _slightly_ early retreat would not be out of order, considering your delicate condition?”

An awful talon of remorse sinks into her chest.

“I would pop into the ladies’ retiring room for just a moment before our ceremonial exit, my lord?”

He kisses her hand, wrinkling his nose at the faint scent of Hux still lingering. But he smiles at her with heartbreaking appeal and the talon digs deeper into her heart.

“I shall wait for you here, my darling.”

A trace of concern crosses his face as he observes her all too omnisciently, and she turns and flees before he can see the depth of her churning emotions.

She finds the ladies’ room and makes her way inside, wide skirts temporarily causing a ruckus as she tries to maneuver into the room and wishing she could take a leaf from Kylo’s book and simply bellow for everyone to leave.

Instead, she nods to the Neimoidian Duchess and waits for the room to empty, excusing the attendant, too, so she might be entirely alone.

She’s deliberately avoided thinking about her circumstances until this moment. The full weight of it crashes into her all at once.

_Am I really doing this?_

_Is this what I’ve sworn to become?_

She pulls the vial from her cleavage and stares at it for a long moment, the weight of rubies heavy around her neck and at her wrists.

 _I may as well be wearing manacles_ , she thinks resentfully. _Oh, gods…what did Hux mean when he said collateral damage?_

She tries to find logic, a realistic rationale. Her pregnancy could bring disaster on an unparalleled level. Kylo has already promised to reinstate the Old Laws and the Lottery, an incomparable horror, the moment he is crowned Emperor.

All he needs is an heir.

_If the Lottery is reinstated, the Resistance will be gutted, and billions will die._

In recent history, nothing else has even approached the horrors of the Lottery. Nothing has even come close, not since the ancient days of Earth, when mass genocide and eugenics nearly brought an end to humankind in the precursors to The Great Devastation.

And then, when the Devastation scythed through the galaxy, they watched in horror as all but humans fell to the deadly Plague.

By the time the Golden Blood cure was found, even humans had been close to extinction.

The Lottery was spawned by the best of intentions but was a system too easily exploited by greed when future generations quickly forgot why it came to exist in the first place. Corruption was only exacerbated by the Church’s wholehearted blessing to do whatever was required to reverse the effects of the Plague.

Designed to randomly “re-parcel” Omegas to various districts and rebuild the species, the Lottery quickly became a means for forced matings, granting lordships of entire harems to any Alpha who could procreate. The rules were lax and even permitted unlimited use of force, so long as breeding rates continued to climb.

Mandatory scans at birth ensured a proper accounting for the census and also provided a means for detecting Golden Bloods. Unscanned infants were a death sentence to the parents and attending physicians, and when that wasn’t enough to stop it, whole generations of families were put to death for not scanning. Entire planetary systems were destroyed for non-compliance, even as the overall population seemed to stabilize.

The goal had shifted from survival of the species to maintaining a system that benefited those in power. Golden Bloods were taken at birth, protected but also used as pawns. 

The Jedi finally managed to step in, stopping the Lottery for a time, but Vader reinstated the system at the recommendation of the Church.

Once again, those who sought to wield power took advantage, only now it was sanctioned by both Church and State; the Crimson Dawn became Vader’s strong left hand in enforcing the Old Laws, arguing if the Plague ever reemerged, only those with blood-of-gold could secure the survival of humanity, even if it never managed to save other intelligent species from extinction.

Rey thinks of how the Great Hall’s floor glows with an ancient magic that can never be replicated. Who knows what other wonders have been lost to time and greed?

She glimpses her own movement in the full-length mirror at her side. From the corner of her eye, blood-red appears to drip over her from head to toe, glittering with crimson, malevolent foreboding.

_I’m just a nobody from nowhere, though I swore I could be brave and strong and willing._

_I promised Leia…I made a vow._

_Perhaps I can buy one life with another._

Lor San Tekka is Leia’s best strategist and he might be her only hope. If Hux can save him, get him to Leia…perhaps San Tekka’s life can bring peace and security to many.

_Sacrifices will be made, and it will hurt, and it will be ugly and hard. I have made many personal concessions already, as will you._

Leia has lost so much already. Her home system of Alderaan, her husband, even her son. And more recently thousands of Resistance fighters, dead for no other purpose than to plant Rey in this exact position.

_You might make a decision one day that could impact billions of lives..._

_That is the weight of rule._

She uncaps the vial and tries to sink into cold, emotionless stone, as her countless hours of Jedi meditation have taught her.

_There is no chaos, there is harmony._

_There is no death, there is the Force._

But all she can see is a pair of dark, haunted eyes. _His_.

_Why must everything I love betray me?_

Bitter tears glisten on her lashes. She cannot meet her own gaze in the mirror as, with a trembling hand, she throws back Hux’s potion in one foul swallow before she can change her mind.

_I have no family. I can never forget the truth of what I know._

_I am alone. Unmatched._

**END OF PART ONE**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew.
> 
> Okay, peeps, here’s the deal: Part One is FINISHED. And yet, I feel as if we are just now getting started.
> 
> I know it took me a while to get this update to you, and I won’t go into detail, but I had a life-altering family emergency this week, on top of some other stuff that I’ve been dealing with. 
> 
> I WANT TO KEEP GOING. I PROMISE more is coming. Please have faith in me, and know that I truly, truly don’t mean to torture you all by leaving off on this cliffhanger. 
> 
> I can’t get to your comments immediately and I WANT TO, and I will. But it might be a while until I can wrangle my time into a semblance of order.
> 
> HOWEVER, please, if you leave a comment, know that I read them all, multiple times, and they really do inspire me through the rough days. 
> 
> Life is precious. Life is short. Sometimes things can happen that can literally alter your reality in the flash of a moment. Be kind to your loved ones. Take care of each other. Remember to love. 
> 
> And I might have said it before, but I’ll say it again. I’m going to do my damnedest to make you happy with this fic. I really, really am. *winks*
> 
> XOXO,  
> Amy B.


	21. A Queen's Gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two: A House Divided

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I need to remind everyone this is a dark story. Please, if you have not done so already, note the updated tags and Archive Warnings.
> 
> A few of you were upset at the end of last chapter, disappointed by Rey and the choice she made, which is fair enough. No hard feelings if you choose to stop reading.
> 
> But. 
> 
> I say our choices, right or wrong, are always at the crux of our own stories, the fulcrums upon which our lives are balanced. 
> 
> Please believe I am not going to dilute this into a Disney version of Reylo. We already had the Disney version. This is _my_ version and I will not compromise it, especially now.
> 
> Dark times are coming, my friends. But in the blackest of nights, I think the light is even more cherished when we find it...

## PART TWO – A HOUSE DIVIDED

# Chapter Twenty-One: A Queen’s Gambit

For a brief moment, Rey holds herself still, breathing hard and clutching a hand over her waist, waiting for pain or cramps or something, perhaps a sign from the gods she’s going to be eternally punished for committing the worst of atrocities.

_Hux said it would take effect in twenty-four hours…perhaps I have time…_

She runs for a screened-off area in the corner, meant to provide some privacy for her guests and wide enough to accommodate the hoops of her skirts. She finds an empty basin on a small table and tries to bring herself to vomit.

Nothing happens, and for the first time she curses her unflappable digestion. A sinking sort of doom makes her chest ache.

She isn’t sure how Hux's alchemy will affect her. But she knows it cannot be taken back.

She would burst into tears if she were not frozen in shock, horrified by what she has done, at what Kylo will do if he ever finds out.

_…you might only look as far as the palace steps to discern the extent of his merciful inclinations._

Her panicked glance to a small mirror on the wall reminds her she’s wearing a ballgown and jewels and hosting a grand party. Surely some guest will come in any minute.

Or one of the constantly lurking Omicrons will poke his head into the room to check on her.

Deliberately, she forces herself to tamp down her rising alarm and calm her breathing as she tries to accept her decision and formulate a plan.

It doesn’t feel real.

_I had no choice. Hux swore he’d hurt more than just me. Collateral damage, he said. I had no choice. No choice._

She waits another moment or two, but no sign of illness sweeps through her, and she wonders if perhaps there was a mistake, if perhaps the potion won’t take effect. Her heart skips a beat at the thought, and Padmé Amidala's bloodred jewels glint mockingly in the soft light. Sudden clarity floods her.

_I am Leia’s most valuable piece in this game. I cannot fail, though winning will be just as painful._

A strategy emerges, and she thinks on it, a way to spin her impending miscarriage into looking like an accident. After a minute of considering every angle, she knows her plan is sound.

Suddenly the weight of the rubies around her neck is too much to bear, and Rey wants nothing more than to get the cursed things away from her skin.

_I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again._

She straightens her costume and pinches her cheeks, too pale at the thought of what she knows to be true.

_He had no pity, not even for his own father._

Han Solo. Bled out on the palace steps just for sending reports back to Leia.

 _He betrayed me, most grievously,_ Kylo had told her. _I had no choice._

But Leia swore her son has long abandoned all true compassion, though he might make a good facsimile of it on occasion. And a mother would know.

And if Leia's assurance wasn't enough, Han Solo's cause of death was undeniably horrific.

The final blow of a Bleeding is meant to be especially shocking: A puncture to the lungs, followed by a nick to the aorta near the heart, resulting in a traumatic and fatal rupture when the victim chokes on the blood filling his airways. Eventually, the heart bursts, causing excruciating pain.

It is said Zeus himself would confess his sins and beg for a merciful death before succumbing to his final cough, so agonizing are the last moments of life.

Kylo swore he had no choice, but according to Leia, Han Solo’s death had been nothing less than a particularly brutal demonstration of her son's ability to wield a blade with devastating precision and cold-blooded ruthlessness. The old hero’s execution was a bluntly delivered message: There will be no leniency for those who oppose the Supreme Leader.

Beyond the screen, Rey hears the doors open and two giggling women enter.

“The Supreme Leader looks so handsome tonight. Pity he’s taken.”

“Well. Just because he’s married doesn’t mean I can’t make my presence known…besides, _she’s_ pregnant and won’t be in heat for ages. Surely he will need some kind of erotic…distraction in the meantime?”

A flurry of tittering laughter rakes down Rey's nerve endings. It’s Lady Bazine and one of her inevitable hangers-on.

“He terrifies me, honestly. Better he take out his beastly nature on _her_. Raised in a convent, can you imagine?”

“Yes. She keeps trying to moralize the court and it’s honestly becoming an embarrassment. We’ve always been…”

“…whores?”

“Oh, stop! She must have done _something_ to earn his regard. His grandmother’s rubies? Her ladyship's let him use her mouth more than once if I had to guess…”

“I doubt it. Though, perhaps she has a golden cunt?”

More giggling ensues, and humiliation washes through Rey as she listens, horrified. Hot shame floods her as she realizes they’re right. Her mouth? It never occurred to her to do such a thing, although if Kylo does it to her all the time, perhaps he might expect the same…

“…doesn’t know any better, poor thing…”

“Well, _he_ seems to like her.”

“Tolerate is more like it…have you not noticed how absent he’s been lately? He’d rather be in Church than with his own wife. You know he only married her for her precious blood-of-gold…but, she’ll never hold an Alpha like him." The voice beyond the screen speaks with too much confidence. "She’ll never be one of us. Not really. Not with her prudish rules and goody-goody comportment…no she’s just a breeder. He’ll tire of her after she whelps a few pups for him…”

“Baz, don’t be vulgar! Everyone adores her except you. You’re just upset because she keeps interrupting you and Lord Kaplan fucking all over the palace…”

“Well, Kaplan is all well and good, but I’d trade him in a heartbeat for a few hours in bed with His Lordship…you saw the outline of that _monster_ he’s packing around in his trousers…”

Rey’s cheeks flame red, paleness no longer an issue.

And in that moment, everything fades away but pure, unfiltered rage. She reigns in the urge to storm out and make a scene, but only with monumental effort.

No. There’s a better way to handle this.

A secondary plan begins to form, a safeguard, a backdoor in case her original plan inevitably goes to hell.

_Knowledge is power._

She’s had extensive training in the art of assimilation. Now is the time to put it to use.

She listens to the women leave and sucks in a deep breath, waiting until she’s sure they are long gone before adjusting her gown, tugging the bodice down to reveal a bare fraction of rosy nipple on either side, as most other ladies at court have done this evening.

The door opens as she rounds the screen to return to the ball.

“My lady? Forgive the intrusion, but are you all right in here?”

_No. I’ll never be all right again._

Rey clutches Hux’s empty vial in her gloved hand. She shoots a cool smile at the nameless Omicron as he holds the door for her.

“Of course.”

Lifting her skirts one-handed, she proceeds to the Great Hall, tailed discreetly by her ever-present guards.

Hux lingers at the edge of the crowd and Rey’s stomach crawls with anxiety and a surge of loathing so potent it makes her hands shake. But she hides all of it and pretends to snag a toe on her wide skirts and stumble. Hux catches her with apparent surprise, and when she slips the vial into the Alpha’s subtly waiting hand, she whispers bitingly, “Done. Just now. How long until…?”

He bows and mutters with a faint sneer, “A few hours at the least."

"And San Tekka?"

"Forgive me, but I'll wait for confirmation, your ladyship.”

She lifts her chin with a haughty snub and says nothing. Because there is nothing she can say, though she heartily wishes Hux would drop dead on the spot.

But she can deal with him later. For now, she proceeds to Kylo across the ballroom.

Rey takes his hand, and he smiles fondly down at her, amber eyes glittering with approval, though she knows they can darken to deadly obsidian in a heartbeat.

“One last dance, my lord?” she murmurs, conscious of Lady Bazine’s avid attention on them.

 _Eat your heart out, bitch. He's mine. And if things don't go accordingly...I fear you are not long for this world..._

Music drifts around them, and Rey moves into the steps of a waltz as Kylo whirls her around the floor. Other dancers have begun to discreetly step back, yielding way so they can watch. The weight of their perusal is a subtle, relentless pressure, though Rey steps lightly.

As they dance, the light of the moon drifts down, casting an eerie luminescence through the Hall and glinting off the enchanted floor, all life in the galaxy represented by the soft glow.

 _A living map. If_ _I accomplish no other purpose here, I will_ _see it illuminated as it was in the old days_...

The atmosphere has grown thick and cloying with the scent of mingling anticipation and half-wild inebriation, and Kylo pulls her close, somehow managing to move gracefully, his long legs brushing the voluminous skirts of her ballgown. Unbidden lust rushes through her when her bosom skims against his coat.

“Are you well, sweetheart? You look pale. I would not have you succumb to a faint.”

The concern in his voice underscores the magnitude of her betrayal.

_He will never forgive me. So, he must never find out, no matter what happens next._

She straightens her shoulders and flashes him a radiant smile, one she hopes conveys a degree of urbane sensuality that will not be missed by the onlooking party guests, and one guest in particular…

“I’m sure it’s nothing we can’t cure once we are finally alone, my lord.”

The slightest flare of nostrils reveals he’s caught the scent of her rioting emotions. His gaze flickers to her cleavage and darkens with a tinge of desire.

“I wonder if the moon is making you unusually bold, my love,” he muses, voice dropping an octave. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Neither would I complain of your attentions, my lord, in private or public,” she goads with a hint of daring and his sharp inhale indicates he’s grasped her meaning.

His gaze grows predatory, heavy-lidded, and he tilts his head.

The music fades to end their dance.

Never one to forego an opportunity for a dramatic public display, Kylo dips her back, holding her off-kilter so she must trust entirely he will not drop her. But his arms are strong as ever and his eyes smolder into hers. He nuzzles the massive ruby that once belonged to his grandmother from the swell of her breast and Rey fights a gasp as she is strongly reminded of their betrothal ceremony on the palace steps.

With a wolfish grin, he plants a searing-hot kiss to the edge of her décolletage, precisely over the spot where he cut her _that_ night.

_I’m in your blood now, and you’re in mine._

Despite everything, a nearly painful surge of yearning overcomes her. If she might have hidden it or run from it before, now she gazes boldly back at him and arches her spine invitingly, drawing a few bawdy chuckles from their guests.

“The moon is at full knot, and I find myself rather eager for bed, my lord…” she prompts recklessly, abandoning all decorum, not bothering to lower her voice.

“Then let us take ourselves off and leave our guests to find their own pleasures,” he breathes.

“Yes. Though I would look upon our people before we retire, my lord. If you please.”

The onlooking partygoers applaud and chatter pleasantly as their obviously smitten Supreme Leader escorts her to the top of the palace steps outside. Rey takes a minute to wave to the ever-present crowds, rowdy and noisy and stinky under the pale light of the Knotted Moon and the watchfulness of the stern-eyed soldiers patrolling the steps and streets.

They see her and a wild roar erupts from below. At first, she has trouble distinguishing their words as they call out.

One man scrambles up the steps before a soldier can bar his way with a pike. “Our Lady Persephone!” he shouts. “Bring freedom to the Scrums!”

He turns and lifts a clenched fist to the crowds behind him and they roar with approval.

Though he is quickly and rudely shoved down by a nearby soldier, Rey nods with regal acknowledgement, eliciting even more uproar from the Alphas crowding the palace steps, as they begin chanting, “Freedom, freedom!”

 _I will free all of you_ , Rey swears to herself. _No matter the cost._

Kylo shakes his head and sneers, “They have no idea what they’re asking for. Utter chaos and disorder. They’d have their so-called freedom and be starving within a span of weeks.”

Still, the shouts from outside carry into the Great Hall as Kylo leads her towards the small gallery. As they pass through their guests, Rey makes a deliberate point to pause at the center of the throng and drag her husband’s mouth to hers for a passionate kiss, if not a theatrical one.

His scent shifts from annoyed to ravenous as he returns her kiss with blatant appetite. Abruptly, he bids their guests good evening and tugs at her hand, steering her to their rooms with palpable eagerness.

Before they are out of sight, Rey is sure to shoot a cold, victorious smile at a stunned Lady Bazine.

Although Kylo hustles her back to the royal apartments in all haste, several servants await to assist with disrobing. Additionally, an armed guard stands by, ready to return the rubies to the safety of the Church’s vaults.

Kylo leaves her at the door to her rooms and promises to come to her soon. Nevertheless, nearly an hour is needed to remove her gown and jewels and clean the cosmetics from her face and untangle her hair, and Rey’s impatience only adds to the foreboding sense of a ticking clock, counting down the last of her precious minutes.

Wearing a heavy silk robe and reeking of arousal, Kylo paces irritably into her room while Phasma carefully unravels her braids. It will take an eternity to brush Rey’s hair to Phasma’s exacting standards, but Kylo impatiently shoos the woman away and promises to handle the task _personally,_ insisting she leave them at once.

Rey agrees, keeping a placid smile on her face, but all she can think is that she has no time. None. In a matter of hours, she will be indisposed for who knows how long. 

She tries to convince herself her worries only exist because if Bazine manages to seduce Kylo, Leia won’t like the idea of another woman holding sway over the Supreme Leader. A competing agenda could cause problems for the Resistance, especially before the First Order is dismantled.

…but the truth in her heart simmers with ugly reality.

She's jealous. And she knows she only has hours at best to secure her hold on him before others try to lure him away. Especially if…

She forces the thought of what’s coming from her mind. She’ll go mad if she dwells on it, and now more than ever she needs to maintain her wits and be methodical and calculating.

_Think about it later. What’s done is done, and you must deal with the present before tomorrow’s problems are upon you._

The instant Phasma slips from the room, Kylo drags Rey to bed and kisses her until her toes curl, teasing open the edges of her dressing gown and burrowing his nose against her neck until nothing but heat and a near-frantic need claws its way up her throat.

Impulsively, she plunges her fingers into his thick, silky hair and rubs against him, opening her mouth and kissing him back with uninhibited abandon. 

When she prods at his shoulder, he rolls and drags her to lie on top of him…and _gods,_ she can’t imagine anything more seductive than the feel of him strong and warm beneath her.

He’s ferocious and handsome and _hers_ and he wants her.

As if to emphasize this realization, he sits up and maneuvers her into straddling his lap. When she presses a kiss against the erogenous gland under his jaw, he moans so deliciously her belly flutters. She flicks her tongue over the spot, capturing the wild taste of aroused Alpha, and every drop of blood in her body sings with wanton need when a low groan escapes him.

“Let’s get this off, hmm?” His large fingers fumble at the tie around her waist and she’s kissing him and writhing against his erection and surely the force of their desire is torture, the rush of knowing they want each other with equal ferocity.

His hands are everywhere, roaming with free license until he stops and lightly, gently plucks at a nipple through the silk of her dressing down, as if he knows she’s particularly sensitive there.

Her mouth slams onto his and she’s clawing at his robe while he violently yanks at her dressing gown, baring her to her waist and trapping her arms in the sleeves. He bends her back so his tongue can swipe a line of fire from her collarbone to a tightly furled nipple. When his perfect mouth fastens around the tender peak and draws on it with such delicate ardor, she squirms and squeals his name and _fuck_ , she’s nearly out of time...

His eyes glow dark with passion and she _wants_ him, wants to feel his hard, unyielding muscles bearing down on her, his skin on hers, his body fitting into hers, sweeping her into a different world, even if only for a moment or two.

Her hips flex convulsively against his crotch, and he grasps her hard enough to leave bruises, grinding against her with a strangled, “Fuck, _yes_.”

He traces the shell of her ear with his tongue, gently nipping the lobe until tingles dance across her skin.

“I want…” she gasps, as she rips his robe from his shoulders.

But she can’t finish her thought because he’s dipped his head to suck the tip of her breast into his hot, wet mouth and she’s going to faint if he keeps doing that.

He tosses her out of his lap and he’s tearing at her gown like a demon, roughly jerking the knotted tie and growling and smelling half-feral. Her heart nearly pounds out of her ribcage when he grates out, “Don’t move.”

He makes quick work of her dressing gown and briefly rolls away, dragging his robe off and glaring at her with such furious passion she shivers. 

Then he crushes her against him and kisses her until she's dizzy, incensed with need.

Their tongues and mouths clash until they’re grunting and snarling, until she scores his chest with her nails, just enough to draw a thin line of red against his skin. Before he can stop her, she slides her tongue over the mark with a delighted moan.

“Fuck… _Rey_ …” He sounds more animal than human, a deep, cautionary rumble telling her she’s playing with fire. He’s warned her before, but she can’t seem to help herself.

“…good…” she whimpers, swiping her tongue over the scratch, struck by sudden inspiration.

She doesn’t know the words, so she kisses her way down his chest, lingering over a flat nipple until he growls at her to stop it. She’s too skittish to insist and this Alpha is not one to lie passively for too long, so she moves lower to the rippling muscle of his abs before dipping her tongue into his navel and rubbing her cheek against the scruff just beneath.

He’s gone quite still and his fingers thread tentatively into her hair, but the scent of raw urgency pours out of him as hotly as it ever has.

 _Alpha wants this. Alpha…likes this_ …

His arousal bumps heavily against her, and she slides down a bit further. His scent is much stronger here, muskier.

“What…are you…doing?”

His fingers clutch reflexively against her skull as she slides her tongue down the silken skin of his heavily veined shaft, giving a few hesitant, sucking kisses along the base where his knot is beginning to swell.

“… _Rey_ …”

When he shudders and hisses through his teeth, she does it again, more confidently this time, fascinated at how something so simple elicits such a reaction.

“Do you…like that, Alpha?” she murmurs, kissing her way back up to the flared head and taking him into her mouth until his hands fist in her hair and he grunts like a beast.

Her tongue explores, swirling around and stroking the slit at the tip of him until salty moisture beads there. She moans at the heady taste combined with the power of reducing him to shocked gasps and sputtering pleas.

"Rey," he warns. His hands tighten on her scalp. “F-f-fuck, if you keep going…I’m…going to…”

He seems to be having trouble finishing his sentences, and she revels in it, this unexpected influence she’s discovered.

She glances up and catches him staring at her with such intensity a gush of slick flows between her legs, and when she flicks her tongue over the wet pearly drops still trickling forth, his ragged cry of pleasure makes her body clench in response.

“Witch,” he chokes, tugging roughly on her hair until she pauses and meets his gaze. “Where did you learn to do such a thing?” he demands.

“I…” She gapes at him, unsure how to answer.

He drags her up for a harsh, plundering kiss before he flips her onto her belly and crawls over her, sinking his teeth into her shoulder. His breath is hot, fanning over her skin.

“I asked you a question, little wife,” he insists, low-voiced and threatening.

She can feel the heat of him at her back, his chest damp with a fine sheen of perspiration. His silky hair sweeps against her as he noses at her mating gland, making her moan, but when she tries to reach back to touch him, he merely pins her hands and growls, “Who?”

“Lady Bazine. I overheard her talking about…doing it,” Rey replies honestly.

He turns her onto her back to look at him. Slowly, he searches for the truth and finds it written on her face. Rubbing his body against hers, he grips her legs and pushes them apart. Her toes curl with anticipation, but something dark and deadly flashes in his eyes.

“You think to rule me with a whore's tricks?” he asks quietly, momentarily bristling with indefinable supernatural energy.

She tries not to panic at the reminder he’s been named the God of Death.

His hand wraps around her throat, applying just enough pressure to force her to concentrate on her breathing and reiterate he can take her life any time he so chooses.

The eerie sensation fades quickly, however, and he merely smiles as she lies passively beneath him, submissive so as not to spike his ire. He looms, biceps bunching and flexing as he braces his weight, careful to only let her feel his body heat, nothing else. She lifts her hips, trying to find some friction, some kind of penetration to ease the frustration building in her.

_Hurry. Hurry, we have no time…_

His voice is infuriatingly gentle, and he mouths against her gland. “What do you want? Be specific, darling.”

_I want you to never leave me. I want you to be mine forever. I want you to not hate me when this ends._

But all she can say out loud is, “Please.”

His breath tickles the sensitive spot under her ear and his tongue slides wetly against her pulse. He pushes two fingers between her thighs and curves them up in slow, tantalizing movements. With sudden, vicious rhythm, he strokes her almost violently, whispering things he wants her to do to him, things he wants to do to her.

“Do you like that, sweet Omega?” he croons softly.

“Yes, Ben, _please,_ ” she cries. “I need you…”

 _Finally_ , the hard heat of him prods at her entrance and the exquisite push of him filling her is enough to make her forget everything.

“You need this?”

“Yes!”

He pulls out and pushes in again, slowly, watching her hungrily, swallowing her every expression, every nuance of sensation.

“You _like_ this?” he asks, sounding demented. As if she’s arguing against it instead of reveling in his embrace. 

“…yes…” she grits out.

He ducks his head and she knows he’s watching himself impale her. He plunges in again, harder this time, and she squeals at the fierce bliss ripping down her spine. 

“Gods, I want to make you come,” he pants with a wicked smile, “…make you _scream_ …”

“…yes!” she cries, clinging to his arms as he delivers series of bruising thrusts.

“…fucking tear you to pieces…and put you back together again…”

“Don’t stop…Ben… _please don’t stop_ …”

“I won’t,” he vows.

She bites his shoulder, feral and desperate to taste him. He is damp with sweat, and now he tastes of blood, which only incites her renewed zeal as he curses and shifts and spreads her legs, pummeling into her until she digs her fingernails into the firm muscle of his backside.

_Mine. My Alpha._

The taste of him is hot on her tongue and she can feel it, that sweet, building pressure, and he feels it, too, she’s sure.

He grips her throat again, squeezing gently and staring at her with such utter possessiveness her heart skips a beat.

“Mine,” he growls, eyes black with avarice. _I already own all the parts of you that matter._

_Yes._

“Come.”

With a savage twist and a visceral groan, she obeys, silently begging him not to stop, to _never_ stop, not until he flings them both over the edge of sanity into the fires of Hell itself.

* * *

A gust of hot desert air flaps the tarp overhead, a listless, apathetic reminder of the torrid heat just outside, as the sands bake under the relentless Jakku sun. Her bare toes burrow deeper into the shady sand beneath their table.

“A pawn or a piece is only a means to winning, in the end. You must remember that, child. Nothing and no one is exempt from the collateral damage of war.”

Lor San Tekka’s voice is scratchy with age and he smells like stale sweat and ancient, weather-beaten wool.

His scruffy brow lifts in surprise at her next move and his mouth turns down into an approving sort of frown.

Nevertheless, Rey listens and watches the board with cautious awareness.

After a moment or two, his wrinkled, leathery hand reaches to take her favorite piece, the _Kintan Strider_ , and her heart drops. She’s been hoping to pull San Tekka’s attention away from her _Strider_ by leaving her _Monnok_ open.

“Even the mightiest piece on the board must be occasionally surrendered for the sake of the greater game. In fact, you will find your most powerful assets _should_ be sacrificed when the stakes are at their highest.”

Rey nods, trying to understand the lesson as he shifts a few pieces around. He takes her _Monnok_ , now useless, as well.

“It’s called a _Queen’s Gambit_ ,” he tells her, easily reading her avid interest. Rey likes it when he seems to understand her thoughts.

Sometimes, it almost feels like she has a real friend, just like she’s read about, though her tutors insist the Jedi are better off not forming attachments, and it’s best if she accepts the idea sooner rather than later.

“Gambit,” she repeats, trying to memorize the move for a future game. Not the _next_ game, or even the next two or three after that, because it would be too obvious, and he would be expecting it…but later.

Yes, she might have a use for such a move later. _A Queen’s Gambit._

She presses her lips together, chapped dry from the endless desert wind as it shifts infinitesimally to indicate the afternoon’s end.

“What did you learn today?” San Tekka prompts, sweeping her rations packets from the rickety table into a dusty, ratty-looking bag the color of sand.

“Don’t get attached to my pieces.”

“Don’t have _favorites_ ,” he corrects. “Had you been willing to lose the _Strider_ , you might yet have been able to put the _Monnok_ to better use…”

San Tekka begins to clear away the Dejarik board, much to Rey’s resigned disappointment. He feels it too, the fractional shift in temperature only locals can reliably decipher as evening’s approach. Rey seethes inwardly but remains passive before the elderly man. If she shows any temper or emotion whatsoever, he is likely to stay well away from Niima Outpost until she’s had time to acquire some self-discipline.

“It’s best,” he tells her, wise old eyes gleaming, “if one such as you never gets attached to _anything_ , my girl.”

“One such as me?” she asks, still trying to salvage his visit, draw it out. Even getting trounced and lectured by San Tekka is more appealing than being back home, inevitably kneeling at temple or even worse, stuck in front of a holocron screen learning about the abominations of the Old Laws and the Horrors of War.

There’s a lot of blood in war. And dying.

She wonders if that’s what _abomination_ means and almost asks San Tekka. But he’s watching her with a piercing sort of stare that makes her feel like a piece on the Dejarik board.

Something uncomfortable slithers over her heart, like a snake, only slimy. Like a sarlacc tentacle.

“It’s past time for me to return to my village. Before I depart, I would hear you recite the Jedi code for me.”

He’s not _really_ her tutor, and she isn’t technically obligated to obey him. But something unspoken tells her if she doesn’t obey, he won’t come back for a while.

So, she dutifully recites the words.

_There is no emotion, there is peace._

_There is no ignorance, there is knowledge._

_There is no passion, there is serenity._

_There is no chaos, there is harmony._

_There is no death, there is the Force._

“You would do best to attend to your teachers’ lessons, young one. Their wisdom will serve you well, should you choose to heed it. Your life is not one meant for a quiet destiny.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding your comments for the past few chapters: OMG.
> 
> Thank you for the outpouring of love and concern. I have several _hundred_ of your replies to respond to, which may take me some time, but please know I've read every single comment, some of them a few times. 
> 
> Thank you for your overwhelming kindness. I feel blessed and humbled.


	22. A Monster's Bargain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind those tags and Archive Warnings, my loves. Content warning for miscarriage/loss of pregnancy.

# Chapter Twenty-Two: A Monster’s Bargain

_You will be schooled in the practical arts of infiltration, assimilation, reconnaissance, and espionage communication, as well as binary programming, general mechanics, and piloting a range of ships._

_Additionally, you will study mathematics, history, language, protocol and diplomacy, psychology, and, of course, religion._

_From today forth you will be accompanied by a chaperone, even when you sleep. General Organa has granted permission for you to occasionally visit Niima Outpost, under supervision, of course, so long as your studies progress well…Even a Jedi padawan must have some diversion to anticipate, eh?_

Can’t breathe, can’t breathe.

A heavily muscled arm drapes over her chest and she sucks in a huge lungful of air, waking herself.

Beside her, Kylo caresses her hair and mutters groggily, “Try to sleep, sweetheart. Morning will arrive soon enough...”

She vaguely remembers she is expected to attend Church with Kylo shortly after sunrise, so Snoke might bless her pregnancy.

Then everything strikes her at once.

_Oh, gods. There won’t be anything to bless…_

_I ought to have asked Hux if it will hurt or if there will be any sign of injury…or if it will just…disappear…_

Torn between the paralyzing fear Hux’s potion will take effect and the wrenching anxiety it _won’t,_ she tries to get herself tired again.

_Damn, what if Hux got it wrong?_

She lies awake for hours, waiting for some sign and anxiously listening to Kylo’s soft breathing. He stirs again and pulls her into his arms.

But, nothing happens, and eventually she glides back into her troubled dreams.

_Lor San Tekka. I will have his head. But first, I shall make him tell me everything he knows…fucking traitor knows where to find Skywalker, I’m sure of it._

_Luke Skywalker. Bane of my existence. Tried to fucking kill me…_

Slight of frame and gray-haired, with a thick, luxurious beard and bright blue eyes that twinkle as if he has already figured out all of one’s secrets, Luke is in a perpetually good mood, despite the constant trials and tribulations brought upon him by his nephew, Kylo Ren.

Luke takes her hand with a benign smile. 

_I, Rey of Jakku, promise to uphold and defend your will in all things, freely give of myself in all ways you might desire, and cherish your person in harmonious submission until the day of my death._

Beforehand, she had argued with Leia about making such a vow, knowing she had no intention of keeping it.

“Think of it as a vow to the Resistance,” Leia had suggested. “My brother certainly is symbolic of all the Resistance entails, and you have already committed your life to that cause, have you not?”

Leia’s words made sense at the time, and it was easier for Rey to speak the Jedi betrothal vows if she thought of them from a certain point of view.

_The Resistance is your family now._

_I have no family._

Family.

_Luke-fucking-Skywalker is a walking dead man, he just doesn’t know it. Yet._

_I’ll find that traitor if it’s the last thing I do…_

_…and when I find him, I won’t hesitate…_

Tendrils of darkness warp and weave under her skin and she senses it, _him_ , breathing hotly against her neck, telling her she’d best _take precautions_ before the evil twang of his dagger biting into the headboard reminds her she is alone, always alone, kneeling on the cold stone floor of the High Church as Snoke’s blade pricks into her flesh.

_What is the price of blood?_

Fire and desolation pummel the scorched ground, the bleak scent of brimstone and terror hang thick in the air. Black rain falls, wet and sticky like tar, to punctuate hunted screams, though not a living soul can be found.

The dead, however. They’re all around.

_…how can you be so weak, so infuriatingly pathetic? I had hoped your grandfather’s bloodline would have provided you some stamina for worship...I can see now how wrong I was. It was a mistake to coddle you, to allow you to go so long between atonements…_

_Lord Sidious agrees. He has tasked me with your penance…_

_Alone._

_I’m alone._

Sudden darkness falls and tells him he is in a familiar nightmare. The burning air stings his lungs, and ashes fall like snow from the blackened sky.

An altar lies just ahead as his eyes adjust to the eerie glow. He cannot block the death wails from his ears, though he can do his best to ignore them.

_I’m in the cave, lined with skulls and cold as the deepest pit of outer space. No starlight or moonlight enters this place. I’m alone._

He hears movement up ahead, a wispy shuffle of tattered cloth scraping over stone. He knows he is alone, but he peers hard into the dark regardless. An old habit, though useless in this place.

Only death and decay exist here. No monsters.

Well. No monsters but for one.

Morning dawns, and fragile daylight creeps into the room.

He lingers more in sleep than the waking world, sifting through their shared dreams to recall the soldier he’d slain last week, the one who had so foolishly put his hands on Rey in the tunnels. The man had not been granted an easy demise. Kylo had taken a vicious pleasure in making him scream and beg for death, despite his recent, penitent tenure at the High Church, or perhaps because of it.

If his sweet wife had any idea what he’s been through in the past weeks to save her from the bloody version of Sith _worship_ , perhaps she would demonstrate a bit more appreciation for him…though last night she’d been unusually amorous.

Especially when she...with her mouth…now _that_ had been _most_ enjoyable. And illuminating.

 _Lady Bazine, hmm? I must needs watch that the woman does not attempt_ _to reach above her station…_

Disoriented, Kylo turns his head to look at Rey, lying next to him, asleep.

_My sweet Omega._

They had stayed in her rooms last night, making rather vigorous love under the light of the Knotted Moon before finally succumbing to exhaustion in the early morning hours.

Kylo’s mouth twitches into a half-smile, positive Phasma will be furious over the state of her ladyship’s hair.

Rey sleeps, but not restfully. Her forehead furrows into a troubled scowl, and Kylo wonders what trivialities might cause her concern and what womanly wiles she will try on him next. 

Snoke’s recent admonitions ring somewhere at the back of his mind, but Kylo forces them away. Women are naturally manipulative and deceitful, true, but this one has not an ounce of guile in her, he is certain.

Rubbing a silky lock of hair between his fingers, he considers what else his innocent wife might have overheard from the painted lips of Lady Bazine. After Rey returned from the ladies’ retiring room at the ball, Kylo had not missed her notably more exposed cleavage, nor her unexpected boldness.

Something had transpired, surely. He debates using a bit of compulsion to learn what had occurred to turn Rey’s eyes into glittering jewels and cause her to abandon her usual modesty for such brash daring, though he’d caught traces of deep-rooted fear, as well. If the Knotted Moon wasn’t still near to sending him into a feral tailspin, he’d do it, compel her and risk sending himself into rut over it.

But he cannot afford the distraction this morning, not if he means to escort Rey to Church in time for the High Priest’s blessing.

Nevertheless, her fear disconcerts him and he dwells on it.

 _Poor thing is frightened,_ he concludes. _Likely afraid of the pain of birth. She was raised in virtual chastity and had not even a clue about a mating, let alone childbirth._

He cannot do much in that regard, other than to assure her he will bully any physicians and midwives and anyone else into treating her with the utmost care, and…

_Blood. I smell blood._

The stench of blood fills his nose and he wakes fully, heart pounding.

Rey groans and his senses fire up to full alert.

_Something’s wrong. She’s bleeding._

“Rey?” 

_Oh, no. No, no, no._

She shivers and moans feebly, and he pulls back the sheets to reveal sticky wet redness smeared across her thighs and the sheets. Blood. Too much blood.

“No!” he cries hoarsely, as she wakes and clutches at her belly and moans again, as deep, wracking shudders make her convulse with a torment he can feel across their bond.

"I'm sorry." Her eyes flicker closed, and her lips are pale and shaky as she chants, “…I’m sorry, Ben…oh, gods…I didn’t think…I’m _sorry_ … _sorry_ …”

He doesn’t remember bellowing for help, nor can he say how the physician arrives so quickly, followed by Phasma. He has no recollection of the doctor and Phasma cleaning the blood away, doesn’t remember anything but the burning horror of holding Rey's limp hand and silently begging her not to die as Doctor Nala Se examines her.

_Omega. Heed me. Please…gods...Rey...look at me..._

She does not seem to hear his adamant command, and instead she’s closing herself away, shutting her mind from him and his ability to compel her. It would infuriate him, were he not so frightened.

“Has she ingested anything unusual my lord?” The physician’s voice is quiet but insistent, and Kylo resists the urge to bark at her for asking idiotic questions and interrupting his concentration.

Instead, he manages a somewhat scathing reply. “Only sips from my own goblet, during the ball. And we shared a plate at the feast…”

“She was a little over eight weeks along…” Nala Se’s observation is not entirely necessary. The woman knows damned well the details of Rey’s brief medical history.

Kylo nods shortly in lieu of an answer, not missing the doctor’s use of past tense in reference to the pregnancy.

The physician’s hands are quick and efficient, and she presses lightly on Rey’s lower abdomen. Kylo growls low in his throat as a torrent of pain sears through their connection.

“I advise you not underestimate the nightmare of agony I will bring upon you if you injure her,” he snarls.

The physician pales but remains calm and continues her examination. Apparently, she decides it is in her best interest to ignore Kylo altogether, and instead she murmurs, “I’m so sorry my lady. I’m almost finished. I know this is uncomfortable. Forgive me.”

But Rey’s eyes have closed, and Kylo knows she cannot hear anything, not even his increasingly urgent attempts to reach through their bond so he might absorb some of her suffering. He does not miss the way the physician’s eyes flicker over the fresh bruises on Rey’s hips and thighs and throat, put there just hours ago when they…

Finally, the physician looks up and says frankly, “If we are certain she hasn’t been poisoned, my lord, then I would rule this a miscarriage. An accident. I will scan her to be sure, but I think if it were poison, it would not have such a specific or delayed effect.”

“Can it have been a result of…anything else?” Kylo’s eyes wander again to the conspicuous marks growing purple against his wife’s delicate skin, instant guilt swarming into his chest. “…last night…we…”

"I think not, my lord," the doctor reassures him. Kylo watches the doctor run a bio-med scanner over the inside of Rey’s wrist. The woman frowns in brief confusion before realizing Rey’s blood type is unscannable. A light on the little device blinks moments later, however, and the doctor’s brow eases back into passive expertise.

“As I thought. No poison, my lord.”

Kylo feels a lilting relief followed by the overwhelming burden of guilt settle across his shoulders.

_Gods, the Knotted Moon…I was too far gone…intoxicated by my own lust to the point of harming her. She wouldn’t have known to stop me, nor would she have been able to, even if she wanted to…It must be my fault, and the doctor is afraid to say..._

He manages to form a semblance of composure as Doctor Nala Se instructs him in the care that will be required until Rey is healed. 

“Is there nothing else to be done?” His throat aches with helpless remorse, making his voice raspy.

The doctor replies kindly, “She needs rest, my lord. And time.”

Rey interjects, “Would you…can we go to your rooms?”

Shame burns the backs of his eyes and he fights to keep it in check for her sake. Understandably, she will want to escape the lingering scent of blood and memories of what he has done to cause this tragedy. 

“Of course, sweetheart. But first, Phasma’s brought some laudanum to ease you. I would not have you suffer needlessly,” he coaxes, holding up a vial.

At the sight of it, Rey turns white and shrinks back. Her reluctance confounds him.

She shakes her head _no_ , and Kylo frowns. But she refuses to drink it, telling him she will not take anything that will alter her state of mind. Instead she insists the pain is negligible, and Phasma shrugs and tucks the vial away, suggesting her ladyship might do well in a quiet, nest-like environment. Kylo might be impressed at Phasma’s insight, if another cramp were not wrenching though Rey in obvious contradiction to her last statement.

“Can we go to your rooms?” Rey asks again, after catching her breath.

For the first time, he finds himself reluctant to touch her for fear of hurting her. But she whispers “please”, and he cannot deny her anything, not now, so he gently lifts her into his arms.

Phasma and the doctor follow as he carries her to his room and tucks her into bed as if she’s made of spun glass. Doctor Nala Se and Phasma help her into a clean nightgown, propping pillows all around to form a little nest, as Phasma suggested, while he hastily dons a pair of loose-fitting trousers and a soft tunic, suddenly vividly aware of his nudity. He wonders if his newfound self-consciousness has anything to do with the terrible guilt swamping him.

He dismisses Phasma though he insists the doctor remains nearby. 

After settling himself next to Rey, he decides she seems happiest curled into his side with her nose tucked into the crook of his arm. He holds her and lightly pets her hair, trying and failing to reach her through their bond.

The sight of her hurting makes Kylo faintly ill and he does not miss how Rey redoubles her efforts to close herself off.

Her strong-willed refusal to let him in baffles him.

She’s simply never done it before, and he wonders if she’s been trained to compartmentalize her mind the way he has.

Awareness is swift to arrive and devastating to consider in all its implications.

_She’s trying to be strong for me. She feels guilty. Gods._

_The blame for this lies with me and none other...I truly am a monster..._

“It’s not your fault, sweetheart,” he mumbles, sinking deeper into despair.

He holds her with as extreme care as he can manage, eventually dozing off, but he wakes again at the scent of something wrong.

_Rey._

He slides from the bed and calls for the doctor who dutifully waits in the parlor that adjoins his bedchamber. She frowns as she scans Rey's temperature before peering into her pupils with a small penlight.

“I fear she has a fever, my lord, though I’ve never seen one come on this quickly…if she develops a blood infection, it could be fatal,” Doctor Nala Se warns him in hushed tones. Her grim expression underscores Kylo’s burgeoning panic, and he scans his gaze over Rey as she lies pale against the soft linen covering his pillows. The doctor continues, “I can give her medicine, but it will disorient her senses.”

Rey interrupts, “No. I cannot take anything that will alter my consciousness. I…it’s…against my religious vows as a Jedi.” Obstinance the likes of which he’s never encountered glints behind the fever in her eyes.

“I am well aware of what the Jedi vow," he hisses pointedly. "But, that requirement is only meant for acolytes who intend to swear their lives over to sole service in the Force." The new flush of color over Rey’s cheeks sends fresh alarm skittering into him, and he argues, “We are both aware exceptions can be made. Even you took medicine during your heat-fasting.”

“No medicine.” Steel threads her voice and he knows nothing short of death will change her mind.

“Rey…” He decides he will overrule her, come what may.

“I mean it.” 

But her condition grows worse even as he looks on, and he no longer cares for anything but keeping her alive.

“Administer the medicine to her ladyship. At once.” The doctor nods and begins to prepare a syringe.

“Ben, no,” Rey argues weakly. “You promised.”

“I did no such thing,” he snaps. “And I will not have you forfeit your life when a cure to your illness rests within arm’s reach!”

A cold voice speaks from the doorway, “Perhaps I might discern for myself the seriousness of her ladyship’s…condition?” The High Priest moves gracefully into the room, uninvited. Kylo cedes way with great reluctance when the old man lifts a brow, clearly expecting to stand in Kylo’s place at Rey’s bedside. “Doctor," Snoke bids, "you may leave us.”

Doctor Nala Se looks to Kylo for confirmation and at his stony, “Wait outside,” she leaves, bowing to the High Priest on her way out.

Kylo grits his teeth in effort to keep himself from saying something rude; Snoke’s unforeseen appearance does nothing to soothe his rapidly-spiraling thoughts.

Rey glares with delirious and blatant dislike at the old man, and Kylo’s gut roils with tension at what his likely punishment will be for his wife’s insolence, fever or no.

But Snoke does not appear offended. He merely stares down his crooked nose, observing her for a full minute before murmuring with oily sympathy, “I was _most_ saddened to hear of your recent illness, girl. Your husband tells me you’ve been hale and hearty since you conceived. Presumably all was well until this misfortune landed upon you? A sad day for the kingdom, indeed.”

Rey frowns and glances to Kylo, but she says nothing.

Kylo has been loathe to discuss with her just how closely the High Priest has been monitoring her pregnancy, knowing she will undoubtedly disapprove and find the old man’s excessive interest unsettling.

Not missing their private exchange, Snoke looks between the two of them and holds out a gnarled hand. “Your dagger, boy.”

Kylo swallows his nerves and passes his jeweled dagger over.

A glimmer of wicked satisfaction crosses Snoke's face as he unsheathes the blade in a practiced motion that makes Kylo’s stomach turn. He decides if the old priest hurts Rey, he’ll murder him here and now, consequences be damned.

But Snoke simply lifts Rey’s limp hand in his. Kylo doesn’t miss how she flinches. But she allows it, probably from having been indoctrinated all her life to submit to higher-ranking religious authorities without question.

Snoke pricks her finger and sweeps the edge of his dagger over the red drop oozing forth before bringing it to his shriveled mouth and touching his tongue to the blade.

He closes his eyes, and Kylo feels an unbidden surge of animal rage at the momentary expression of bliss on the old man’s face.

_She’s mine._

But before he can react, Snoke’s eyes flash open and he spits onto the floor.

“Poisoned,” he declares.

“What?”

“The girl’s been poisoned. Her blood’s been altered.”

Rey’s eyes meet his, brimming with fear, and Kylo bellows again, _“What?”_

“Her fever is the result of a blood alterant. Likely one meant to mimic a fever brought about from losing the babe.”

“The doctor was preparing to give her medicine. She’s just outside, if we but call her...”

“Medicine is useless against alchemy, you foolish boy. Surely you’ve managed to retain that small fact in your head, after all your years of training?”

“Of course,” Kylo mutters. Snoke’s disdain is palpable, but he’s right, and Kylo finds himself mortified he's forgotten such a simple thing, especially after being sanctified as a diviner by Snoke himself. 

“The girl will be dead within the hour.”

“No!” Kylo roars.

Rey’s eyelids flutter closed and she sinks into the pillows whispering, “No. That… _can’t_ be right…” She moans and murmurs, “Ben…”

Snoke’s gaze sharpens on Kylo, his piercing blue eyes flitting over him with wary suspicion. “I thought you swore Ben Solo is dead and gone?” Snoke’s voice drops to a deadly caress. He lifts a brow to deepen his inquiry, but Kylo says nothing...he cannot.

The High Priest appraises him for a long while, and it’s all Kylo can do to hold his temper as precious minutes of her life tick away.

When he can restrain his urgency no longer, he whispers, “She cannot die.”

“Nevertheless, she will. And rather soon by the looks of it.”

Her eyes do not open at the dire proclamation. She’s fainted, and Kylo turns to Snoke, desperate.

A horrible idea latches onto his mind.

“I can…help her. I know you cannot return… _there_ …but I still can…” Kylo can see the priest comprehends his suggestion, though Kylo cannot speak it aloud for fear Rey can still hear them. “You could grant a dispensation and induct her now…and I could take her…”

“You are still woefully unbalanced after your recent sojourn.”

“I can do it,” Kylo insists, hardening his voice and scowling determinedly at his master. “You have trained me well.”

“Then you already know the preparation alone for _that_ _journey_ takes many years. She’ll go mad within a matter of minutes in that place,” Snoke purrs, but his eyes flash with greed when they land on Rey, lying motionless at his side. “…if she can make it past the tortuous pain it takes to get there, that is.”

Pain will be nothing in comparison to losing her. And if she can endure a heat-fasting…and the aftermath…

_She’s stronger than she knows. It can be done…_

"It is against the laws of our order..." Snoke muses doubtfully, “Though I suppose I can link her blood to yours...but without her express consent...”

“I can compel her," Kylo assures, latching on to Snoke's apparent dithering. "Her consent is a technicality we can debate anon.” He can see Snoke is considering it, though he's taking far too long to decide. “She’s the last known Golden Blood alive. Please. Help her.”

This last plea comes out on a desperate whisper, making Snoke’s lips curl back in disgust to reveal teeth yellowed and pitted with age. Kylo knows he’s made a misstep by begging. Showing such vulnerability before his ruthless master will most certainly necessitate punishment for it later.

But he doesn’t care. He can deal with the consequences after assuring himself Rey will live.

Snoke is wise and powerful and he can help her now.

Next to them, Rey coughs, spattering the pristine white sheets with a sudden, obscene spray of crimson, and Kylo Ren, Supreme Leader of the galaxy has never felt so utterly powerless.

“Please,” he whispers through his teeth, throwing pride and caution and everything to the wind. “I will do _anything_. Anything you want. Blood magic. Anything.” 

Snoke’s wicked blue gaze latches on to Kylo’s. The old priest’s voice resonates with quiet menace. “Very well. You _will_ take her, heal her. And then, even if the journey drives her into utter insanity, you will rut the girl. She _will_ bear your seed and when she does, the _moment_ she does, you will deliver unto me your firstborn child.”

It’s a devil’s bargain, and Kylo’s revulsion cannot be more apparent. He can’t hide it.

_His firstborn child?_

He can endure the worst horrors of penance, _has_ endured it to bring himself power and with it, order to the galaxy. He has committed himself to the path of darkness and never once looked back. But to force Rey onto that path when she has no concept of how dangerously seductive it can be…

He tries to think, but she’s dying, he can feel it through their weakening bond, a hideous unraveling of the beautiful, lovely thread that connects them. She's slipping away from him, the only thing in his life worth living for. He has no time for abhorrence or recrimination.

_She belongs to me. Death cannot have her. Not yet._

“I'll do it. Once the child has been weaned,” he amends, unable to fathom the idea of handing over a newborn infant to his master. “Consider it a bargain struck. I swear it by my blood.”

Snoke’s gaze sparks with brief victory before he nods agreement. Kylo has the sudden, awful premonition his master has been angling to arrive at this moment all along. But he has no time to dwell on it as Rey chokes and coughs again, a scarlet drop of blood leaking from her nose. 

_We have no time._

“Hurry.”

But Snoke is already pushing up the heavily embroidered sleeves of his golden robes and breathing lightly, pulling in black magic from the air until the light around them flickers and dims.

“A bargain, then. But if you fail me and irreparably damage the Golden Blood…don’t bother returning to this world. Or I will ensure you feel the full capacity of my _considerable_ displeasure.”

Kylo’s skin tingles with electric anticipation as he senses Snoke preparing to grant his vilely bartered wish, acutely conscious of the crushing weight of his monstrous pact.

_I pray the gods will forgive me. I know she never shall._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...yeah...we goin' to the Underworld, kids. 
> 
> Now, you should all be aware I've read your comments and I'm working my way through responding, and holy shit ya'll. You amaze and thrill me.
> 
> BEFORE YOU ASK, allow me to anticipate a few questions, and perhaps spur some anticipation for the next chapter: We are getting very close to the point where the story's timelines converge. I know many of you are eager to find out what happens in the "current" timeline, and believe me when I say, I am EXCITED to get there too. But...as you can probably see by this chapter and the latest revelation of Kylo's bargain with Snoke...things are going to be QUITE interesting when we arrive.
> 
> So. I expect within a few chapters we will have a flash forward to Rey, Kylo, and Hope arriving in Coruscant, a few more chapters to fill in A TON of missing plot points, and then we will proceed on our journey from there. 
> 
> Thank you all for indulging me, and thank you even more for reading and kudos-ing and commenting.
> 
> XOXO...


	23. Death and The Maiden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: For Chapter 23 graphic blood and gore as tagged
> 
> REGARDING CHAPTER 22:
> 
> In case anyone had to skip over the loss of pregnancy section, a brief summary: 
> 
> (If you read until the first break in text, you will catch Rey and Kylo’s mingled dream. Stop reading after the line “No monsters but for one.”) 
> 
> Here is what happened the rest of the chapter: In the course of Hux’s potion taking effect, Rey becomes ill and endures a miscarriage, as she expected. She is visited by a doctor who says she was not poisoned. Upon learning this, Kylo feels deep guilt and shame, believing his overly enthusiastic lovemaking the night before to be the culprit for Rey’s loss. 
> 
> Adding to his guilt, Rey asks to be taken to his rooms, instead. Kylo does as she requests, thinking she wishes to be away from the scene where everything occurred. Once in his bed, Rey's condition worsens, though she refuses flat-out to accept any medication that might alter her state of mind. Just as Kylo is about to override her refusal to be treated and insist the doctor administer a cure, Snoke arrives.
> 
> Snoke quickly evaluates Rey himself by tasting a drop of her blood. He can immediately discern she has ingested a blood alterant of some kind and suggests it was meant to mimic a fever brought on by her miscarriage. Now knowing she’s been poisoned and will be dead within the hour, Kylo begs Snoke to permit him to take her to the Underworld so she might be healed there. 
> 
> Snoke agrees to perform dark magic that will allow this, but only in exchange for their (future) firstborn child. Kylo agrees to the horrible bargain, promising to give his firstborn to Snoke once the child is weaned.
> 
> We will begin Chapter 23 with a flash forward of Kylo taking Rey and Hope back to Coruscant, then proceed back in time where Rey is succumbing to the effects of poison...

# Chapter Twenty-Three – Death and The Maiden

As they approach Coruscant, Kylo Ren’s trepidation only escalates, though he hides it well.

His traitorous wife has at last drifted into slumber on the cot in his ship’s quarters. Even so, he keeps a wary eye on her.

He’s hardly slept as they travel back to the City, only dozing after he’s assured himself Rey is well and truly asleep.

 _She cannot cause trouble if she’s sleeping, though I have not a doubt_ s _he intends to escape at her first opportunity._

_It will be easier to keep her under guard when we reach Coruscant._

Her attempt to run again is only a matter of time. She’s hiding something from him. Something of significance.

He cannot pinpoint what exactly it might be, but he senses their last mental battle was intended to be more a distraction than confession.

_Lando Calrissian. I thought him long dead._

She did not lie about Lando, at least. Kylo is sure of this. She cannot have faked the brief glimpse he caught of his father’s long ago friend when he’d pushed into her mind. According to what he saw, Lando has aged well, his once curly black hair now salt-and-pepper gray and cropped short, his dark complexion barely creased but for the liberal laugh lines around the old man’s dark brown eyes and still youthful smile. 

Nor was there any mistaking the interior of his father’s battered old freighter.

_The Falcon._

As a child, he'd loved that old hunk of junk, a remnant from the War and beloved toy from Han Solo’s checkered past.

Now Kylo loathes even the thought of it and wonders viciously how the flying heap of rusty bolts still maintains a stable airlock, let alone the capacity to travel at light speed.

_So, she was on the Falcon, then. With Lando._

He considers sending his Knights after Calrissian but instantly rejects the idea. Hunting Lando will require too many questions that will only draw suspicion to Kylo's carefully contrived house of cards.

Nevertheless, her revelation disturbs him more than he is prepared to admit. He finds himself annoyed she’s taken him so by surprise he could not even guess her accomplice.

The presence of his dagger smuggled aboard in Hope's basket, however, is not so unexpected. After Rey first disappeared, Kylo suspected she took it, and so he put it about the dagger was stolen and he wanted it back. He advised his Knights to search for it, beginning with questioning the pawnbrokers of Market Street and the Scrum, thinking she might have used it to barter for passage from Coruscant. But when the dagger never turned up, Kylo called his Knights off the pursuit, assuming she must have kept it with her.

Likely not out of sentiment.

She has no love for the thing, nor for what it represents. In fact, it is not a far logical reach to assume she will try again to murder him with it.

The cold-blooded, unfeeling bitch.

Well.

Perhaps she’s not _entirely_ lacking a capacity of feel _some_ form of warm, human emotion…

His gaze drifts to the tiny, fragrant bundle asleep in the basket at her side.

She has no idea the lengths he undertook to cover her disappearance. 

Surprisingly, it had been Snoke who was easiest to convince Rey’s absence from court and Church was nothing to raise concern. Kylo simply told the High Priest his wife insisted on withdrawing into highly restricted confinement upon conceiving again, for fear of losing another pregnancy to poison.

Kylo hinted her return from the Underworld had left her paranoid and mentally unstable, and even Snoke agreed with a disconcerting lack of sympathy that the result was not unexpected, though reality could not be farther from the truth.

As the weeks and months progressed, Rey remained as calculating and clever as ever, hiding herself with infuriating success.

Kylo’s increasingly frantic searches were conducted in utmost secrecy and under the smothering and ever-expanding awareness of his own doom if he could not produce his wife and their expected offspring in good time.

Only Mitaka and Phasma knew the truth, and only then because Kylo needed them to help maintain the illusion Rey was still in residence at the palace. He’d sworn them to secrecy upon pain of death if they told another soul and they remained faithful, thank the gods.

Even his Knights did not know Rey had fled Coruscant until just weeks before her expected delivery date. Again, Kylo concocted a tale of Rey's exaggerated paranoia to explain her flight, hinting it was _much_ more recent and suggesting she was likely reluctant to give birth in the palace where she felt too vulnerable.

Like Snoke, his Knights accepted Kylo’s explanations without question. But they were Kylo’s last resort.

His men had no idea their master had already spent agonizing months of sleepless nights poring over the records from Rey’s convent on Jakku, combing even their old Dejarik games for some hint as to where she might have fled.

But once his Knights were brought into the quest, they made quick work of analyzing and examining the birth scans, and Kylo had his fastest ship standing at the ready when Takodana arose as Rey's likely hiding place.

Mercifully, he was already on his way to retrieve her by the time Snoke learned of her escape.

The Church’s Praetorians would have run her down like a dog and undoubtedly delivered the child directly to the High Priest, despite the terms of his agreement. Kylo has no doubt his master is ruthless enough to reason that if the mother is dead or incapacitated, then the child will be considered weaned.

_Hope._

The baby's name is the height of irony, and Kylo cannot eradicate his burgeoning dismay, doubtful he will be able to muster the courage needed to hand her over to Snoke when the time does arrive.

No. That is a lie.

He will _never_ be able to willingly deliver his daughter to his master. Not after she’s been weaned or at any other time. Not under any conceivable circumstances.

He cannot explain his immediate and irrevocable tenderness towards the infant, but neither can he deny the protective devotion that filled him the instant he lifted her from her basket back on Takodana.

He fancies she looks very much like Rey, except perhaps around the eyes. Those remind him all too uncomfortably of his own.

The moment he looked into her wise little gaze, framed by the prettiest wispy lashes, his heart had surged with a sudden and horrible awareness of the fragility of life in his hands.

_A daughter, priceless beyond compare. Gods, what have I done?_

Rey, of course, has no knowledge of his hastily negotiated pact with Snoke. Kylo is confident she remains oblivious to the bargain made to save her life purely by the fact she has not gone feral and tried to take his head off with her bare hands.

She does not know, nor will she if he can help it.

He cannot trust her to behave with discretion and he will not risk some wildly protective reaction on her part that might bring the full wrath of the Church upon them before he can figure out what to do.

_I might confide in her, if I could but trust her not to do something utterly ruinous._

Not for the first time since finding them, Kylo curses his lack of foresight. He ought not to have brought his Knights. He might have smuggled Rey and the child to safety or left them on Takodana, or even hidden them in some other remote locale.

But no, Rey would have been discovered eventually, or even worse, be tracked by some of the most dangerous scum in the galaxy, like a bitch who's slipped her kennel.

Yes, better for Kylo to have found her before Snoke’s minions could. Better if he protects her under a crown and a collar to divert any authority from the Church to fall under his domain, instead. 

Besides. She belongs to him. Her safety will be easier to assure if she is close at hand.

As will her punishment.

Her scent clings delicately to the air in the room, and his mouth waters at the barely detectable nuance of blood and the faint, sweet tang of breast milk.

He swore he would not touch her again, but his palms itch to betray his vow, practically tingling to slide over the softness of her skin. He finds himself obsessed with the perfume of her scent, longing to savor the sacred place at the back of her neck where his teeth imprints mark her as his eternal possession.

In the aftermath of pregnancy and childbirth, her body has grown slightly lush, her breasts fuller, her nipples darker and mesmerizingly alluring. The sight of her nursing Hope is becoming something of a torment, awakening in him something more animal than man. He does not miss how the sleep trousers she wears only emphasizes the enticing new roundness of her hips, although the rest of her remains almost too lean from a lifetime of less-than extravagant living, not to mention her more recently rustic lifestyle.

Motherhood has lent her both an edged softness and an intriguing protective ferocity, though he once again warns himself to steel his heart against her charms.

Still. Despite her natural affinity for cruelty and deception, Kylo knows in his bones she will never willingly be separated from Hope.

 _She loves the child as I do_ , he realizes.

This insight depresses him as he once again considers the complexity of the situation.

For now, he will proceed with their coronation and doing what he must to further his totalitarian control of the galaxy. It cannot hurt to amass as much power as possible before considering the _unthinkable_...

Going back on his bargain with Snoke will be a grievous, possibly deadly, error for Kylo and most certainly for Rey, as well, despite her Golden Blood.

A break between the Royal House and the High Church will cause a devastating rupture in the tentative peace only now settling again across the galaxy.

And the Resistance has been disturbingly quiet, as have been the systems still claiming allegiance to the so-called New Republic. Kylo has been working to dismantle their consortium of political power, but he does not misinterpret the current false tranquility for anything less than a forthcoming declaration of war.

It is only a matter of time. He can feel it in his gut. Something is coming. Something big. And dangerous.

One way or another, he must prepare once again to finish his grandfather’s legacy and unite the galaxy under a single rule.

_Mine._

* * *

“You ought to take care you do not follow your grandfather’s precipitous path to madness.” 

“Grandfather spent more time in that place than I ever intend to, master…”

After attaining the highest title of priest of the Sith Order, Snoke barred himself from traveling to the Underworld long before Kylo was born, a feat only the most powerful wielders of dark magic can achieve. Most masters, Kylo’s grandfather included, eventually succumb to the lure of lingering too long and, if they are even able to come back to the living world, turn out quite insane upon their return.

“I am well aware. Still, I think you did not inherit his constitution for ruthlessness.” Snoke’s watery gaze crawls over him before he sneers, “ _Ben_.”

Kylo pales but does not flinch from the vehemently hissed accusation. Rey is nearly gone, and he has no time for inconsequential arguments. He senses Snoke is daring him out of pure spite to prolong the saving of her life.

He does his best to hide his annoyance over the vindictive old man’s games.

“She may call me what she will, yet I _am_ her master,” Kylo finally grits out when Snoke refuses to continue.

Snoke huffs and the lights flicker again. “So long as you remember there is no room for compassion if you intend to succeed…”

Reading his turbulent thoughts, Snoke hands the dagger back. Kylo takes it with unflinching stoicism, though his blood pressure rises.

“You will have to do it yourself, since she lacks the strength and understanding she might have gleaned from proper instruction…” Snoke hints with wicked glee.

“Yes, master.” Kylo keeps his expression stony and resolute, not mistaking Snoke’s words for anything less than a test of his resolve. Besides, he plans to use their bond rather than injure her directly.

It is enough of a desecration for him to take her to such an evil place, let alone to actually _cut_ her…

 _Pain_. Kylo dreads doing it, but when the moment comes, he must be in significant pain to make the journey. As will she.

_Better I do it than Snoke._

_And she shall only travel this once,_ Kylo promises himself. _And then only long enough to ensure she will live._

“She travels with you this time. What shall be your source?” Snoke mutters coolly, pressing a shriveled finger to the thready pulse at Rey’s throat. 

Ah, his source. The thing by which Kylo will be enticed back to the land of the living. It must be an extraordinarily personal and persuasive lure, something strong enough to supersede his desire to loiter too long.

He answers without hesitation or qualm, hissing with cold surety, “Vengeance, master.”

When he returns, he will hunt Rey’s poisoner and bleed him unto his last drop of blood, without mercy. Then he will eliminate the poisoner’s bloodline from the annals of history and obliterate his name down to the last member of his family line.

For the first time in many moons, Kylo draws a satisfied smile from the High Priest. 

Snoke cackles approvingly, and Kylo senses his master’s familiar dark energy as it flows into Rey, igniting in her blood the requisite force that will link them beyond even the sanctity of their mating bond.

A mating bond is forged in blood and light, but this…

This is dark blood magic and a violation of the foulest sort, punishable by torture and death if employed by anyone other than the High Priest in accordance with the laws.

Uncaring and impatient of the laws, Kylo grows restless as he perceives Rey’s too-still form. She’s barely alive…

_If Snoke does not hurry I will fucking do it myself and take the consequences…_

“Upon completion of our bargain,” Snoke intones, “I will consider your training complete. In the meantime, when you return from your sojourn, you are no longer required to attend daily mass. You will assume personal responsibility for fulfillment of our agreement, and you are answerable _only_ to me.”

“What of His Holiness, Lord Sidious, master?”

Snoke’s eyes flash rabid with displeasure before he quickly suppresses it. He purrs, “Sidious has much else to occupy his mind.” He looks significantly to Rey and his meaning couldn’t be clearer. “Any other questions, or shall we proceed? I cannot remain from my homeworld. I’ve already been away too long. If you are not up for the task…?”

His insinuation hangs in the air, and Kylo fights the urge to clobber the old man before reminding himself Snoke’s appearance of frailty is only an illusion. 

“Very well.” _Fucking hurry._

A web of energy flows around Rey and flutters with a sinister, electric pulse before sinking into her skin. She opens her eyes with a jolt and stares at Kylo, confused, as he shreds her nightgown down the middle.

“Do you consent to bind your blood in the realms of darkness?” 

"I do," he replies, gaze fixed on hers. 

"And does she?" Snoke drawls. 

Kylo draws upon every drop of willpower he owns to compel her into answering while she still has breath, spearing his will into her with the force of a battering ram. Now is not the time for gentle consideration.

_Hurry, gods, hurry…_

Her lips move to form a word, but her eyelids flutter closed.

“That was a yes,” Kylo barks, using his dagger to draw a line of fire down his forearm and spray red over her chest and neck.

“Pray I have not made an error in judgement,” Snoke spits. “I shall expect a full and prompt report when you return.”

“Yes, master. Thank you, master.”

As his blood soaks into her skin, her eyes flicker open again.

Snoke glides from the room without fanfare, and Kylo bellows for his Knights to attend him at once, hurriedly moving to stoke the fire in the hearth to a near inferno.

His Knights are sure to be waiting in the antechamber beyond.

With his last shred of patience, he demands they guard his bedchamber doors, excusing the Omicrons outside with harsh dismissal.

“You _will not_ enter these chambers, nor allow anyone else inside. No matter what you hear. You know the law.”

“Yes, Master Ren.” They speak as one and strike their fists to their breastplates in a unified salute.

“Then, leave us!”

Assured they will obey his orders, he dashes to Rey’s bedside. His arm stings like the devil, but it's nothing compared to what’s coming.

She’s trying to talk, but her voice is gone, empty. Her lips are bloodless, her skin already turning blue with the pallor of death. She is only conscious because the dark magic flowing through her is bonded to Kylo’s own life force.

“Sweetheart. I need you to listen to me very carefully.”

“Ben,” she exhales. “What…is happening?”

“I’ll explain, I promise. But we must hurry and I need you trust me.” He kneels beside the bed, eye-to-eye.

Carefully, he takes her clammy hand. His heart skips a beat. She’s cold as ice, and he can feel her dying spirit clinging to his. The only reason she’s alive…

_…is because I am…_

Death. It beckons.

“I…cannot sustain us both for long, so I need you to _look at me_ …” he begs. 

Her eyes are rolling back, and a wave of frigid nausea rolls through him.

“Rey! Heed me. Listen! Please, gods. Stay with me.”

“…Ben…” Red bubbles catch at the corner of her mouth and her eyes widen with sudden alarm. “Ben. What is _that_?”

She’s frightened. The shadows crawl too slowly, too _purposefully_ over the walls. He does not react, knowing the answer will terrify her.

The fire breathes and hisses and snarls, a living thing. The room’s light is bleeding away, along with the last of his life force.

_Hurry._

Stumbling, he drags her into his arms and carries her to the fire, knowing the illusion of warmth is better than nothing. He lays her next to the hearth and rips her nightgown the rest of the way, baring her like a sacrifice.

_Mine._

The errant thought inspires a whirl of dark magic to brim and overflow, and a deep, rolling tremble fills the room like an earthquake.

“This is going to hurt most dreadfully,” he whispers thickly.

He must tip the balance between light and dark. And he must hurry.

…but, gods, it is glorious, this ghastly, beautiful surge of energy, this endless power…

He already yearns to bask in it, to revel in the corruption of the Light as it pours over them both.

Some part of him notes how her chest rises and falls too rapidly. It’s going to burn through his energy stores in a matter of minutes or less.

_…hurry…_

She focuses on him, lips parted on a question, but the moment he gains her attention, he throws the force of his will at her again, compelling her into a trance.

_Omega. You must slow your breathing, calm your thoughts. I know you are frightened. But we haven’t much time._

He places her palm over his heart and stares beseechingly into the depths of her eyes, seeking the tiniest glimmer of light to carry with him into the smothering black oblivion.

_Look at me._

_Imagine an ocean. An island. Can you see it?_

_Yes, Alpha._

_All around, you hear the waves._

His hand trembles on his dagger as he prepares to do the thing he knows must be done.

Only pain and suffering can transport a soul to the world of the dead…and though she’s dying, it’s not enough.

He grips her by the throat and makes her hold his gaze, makes her see and smell the ocean of death, makes her feel and touch the island of pain, not just in her body but in her heart, a terrible magnificence to behold.

She clutches at his forearm with both hands, resisting, but she does not know it is required, this horrible splendor, and he does. He knows and he _lusts_ for it.

_…how can you be so weak, so infuriatingly pathetic?_

Raw hatred fills him, clashing with untamed fear.

This has always been the way.

“We are going on a trip, you and I," he growls in a demon's voice. "No matter what happens, you will trust me. Can you?”

“Yes.”

_Forgive me._

He stabs the dagger into his thigh and twists it so brutally a scream is ripped from her chest as his agony flares across their bond.

An instant, cold sweat breaks over his forehead and her pallor takes on an ugly bluish tint.

She’s too strong, too strong by far, far stronger than he might have guessed. It throws him off to witness the raw strength in her that so blatantly matches his.

Fuck. He’d hoped it would be enough.

Suddenly, his confidence wavers. It frightens him to consider, no matter how fleetingly, that he might not have the will to overcome her. His fear is exposed, a gaping wound. It cannot be hidden here in this world in between…they have started down the path and they must travel still farther if they are to descend into hell. The shadows on the walls crawl and hiss and spit...

 _The ocean_ , he chants, locking desperate eyes with hers, bearing down and twisting the blade, again and again, _think of the waves, the…fuck…this fucking hurts…I’m sorry._

_Forgive me. This is the only way._

He grips her arm, hating how small she is, how helpless, how his brutishly large hands so easily encircle her and hold her as he drives the dagger into her flesh, ruthlessly pushing until the blade grinds against bone.

She screams again, horrified and betrayed as he wedges it back and forth, chanting the words she’ll never remember, phrases of ancient evil and dark magic no human being should know or ever speak aloud.

He chants and twists until her screams echo into empty moans, until the veil between the waking world and the world of the dead begins to lift.

Darkness bleeds into his vision but she’s resisting, too afraid, and he grinds the dagger deeper, sinking into an agony of desperation, his panic surging. _..if I cannot do it, if I fail now, after everything_ …

“Let go!” he snarls, “You’re still holding on. _Let go! Rey!_ I want you to _join me_ …”

He can hear the rapid skip of her heart, her golden blood howling through her veins, the scent of them both weaving thick in the air as wave after shuddering wave of tortuous anguish claws and crashes against the last of his resolve.

He can see it now, what she sees, a vast ocean of blood where nothing can live, a sickly red sea where no living thing can survive the rotting stench. He chases her to the refuge she seeks on the island, knowing she will find only decaying bones wrought with carrion and disease, corpses piled as high as a mountain...but just beyond...

_Come with me. Come._

_You cannot escape Death, my love. I come for all, eventually._

The fire beside her flickers to weak embers before it glows an eerie blue. And then even that light fades and swift, luxurious darkness falls upon them like a suffocating cloak.

There. There it is.

Now. Yes.

He dons the cloak with languorous assurance. It fits him perfectly, it always has.

He was Born for this. Is Made for this. Named to do this on the day of his birth.

The darkness. It belongs to him. The shadows will obey. They cannot harm him now.

He observes his hand, still gripping the blade, his veins glowing black with corruption under the ethereal paleness of his skin.

It isn’t natural what he’s doing, a violation of the laws of nature. It's wonderful.

Yes. Yes, it’s delightful and deadly and it slithers into his soul like silk.

Like blood.

Blood flows black from her arm and his thigh, and he finds himself momentarily distracted, smearing his thumb across her skin, riveted by the design of the pretty, sticky substance as he smudges it over colorless flesh, already trying to knit itself back together.

_Why did you hurt me?_

_Only pain will break us through._

The answer is incomplete. It makes no sense, so he shushes her again and draws a swirling, swooping pattern down her arm using the blood from the wound he gave her while there’s still some left, such lovely paint it makes...

He glances between her legs, sudden sorrow swarming him. _Sad paint, this._

She’s sad, too, he can see it in her eyes, his Goddess of Death.

His. 

The gods saw fit to give her to him, though he had to slaughter a few souls to take her and a few more for their insults.

_Mine, you’re mine. My very own Persephone._

_Where are we?_

_My dear, my dear, it is not so dreadful here. You see?_

The red gleam of bloody truth glints from the blackness in her gaze, reflecting back to him.

He can see she understands, though he might consider making her forget. But for now...for now, she sees, and it _moves_ him, she’s so lovely.

He can see she knows the truth, how he did not lie. He _can_ paint the skies with fire and blood and pull the pillars of the galaxy from their very foundations and grind it all to dust.

With a snap of his fingers he can tear planets from the sky and shake the stars until nothing is left.

No light, no life. Nothing but death and devastation on an unimaginable scale.

His, all of it his for the taking.

She can see how it belongs to him, the death and the darkness.

_It belongs to you too, my love._

When she sees, her mouth falls open on a gasp without air. No, there is no air here, nor breath, nor pulsing blood.

Only death.

_Mine._

Now she knows, and he vaguely hopes she has the strength to resist the darkness. It is hers now, too.

And if she ever takes this power unto herself, his sweet, lovely goddess will very likely bring about the end of all time.

_Your gentle beauty could be my ruin. You see?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said we are GOING to the Underworld, but the process of GETTING THERE was just too deliciously horrific, so I HAD to drag it out a bit. 
> 
> Also, I know it's been a bit longer in between updates, but that is because I FINALLY finished a WIP. So if you need some light-hearted smuttiness, go read [Say It With Feeling](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18710287/chapters/44376004) to take the edge off. *winks*
> 
> Oh! And don't be surprised when you start getting really late replies to all of your AMAZING comments from the past few chapters - I'm slowly getting things in my life back under control again, and I PROMISE I will reply to each of you. 
> 
> XOXO!!!


	24. Dawn of Vengeance

# Chapter Twenty-Four – Dawn of Vengeance

_Kill them all._

The shadows on the walls scratch and claw, hissing and spitting if they move too close to the fire.

_Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe._

Something heavy lies on top of her. Soft. Warm.

_Smells…sooo good. Him._

Embers glow in their last red throes of death.

Naked.

_Why?_

She cannot breathe from the relentless weight pressing her into the unfeeling cold of the hearthstones. The heaviness crushes her ribs into the unforgiving stone and reminds her of Church.

_Church. The price of blood._

“Ben?”

Something wet and luxuriously _hot_ slides along the underside of her breast. She exhales, eyes falling closed as warm, firm fingers mold gently around soft flesh, cupping it to his mouth so he can feast, lapping and sucking with such attentively devastating pressure her womb contracts and pulses, bringing her perilously close to orgasm.

Her fingertips claw into the hard muscle caging her in and she inhales.

_…mine…_

He’s wearing clothes.

Why?

Rough hands drag her up from the floor and she cannot hold herself upright. Her bones are limp like bloody rags and her head lolls back, limbs falling weakly to the side.

Floating, no _lifted_ …the shadow behind him pauses and snarls, sending ripples of terror to coalesce at the back of her neck.

Startled, she flinches and yelps, eyes flashing wide with panic, with warning. But he is unperturbed.

“ _Shhh_ …” His voice is low, gravelly. Reassuring. “Just a trick of the light. You cannot trust the light right now, my love. Not for now. _Shhh_.”

Darkness seeps into her pores. _His_.

Mine.

Danger flows off him like radioactive energy, making the air crackle with electric tension as it does before a storm.

“What…?”

_Did I die?_

Soft blankets and pillows rush up to greet her, though they smell of old blood. _Mine._

_His._

_Why?_

She tries to discern the why of it, confused, but he’s on top of her again and his mouth, his perfect, lovely mouth is seeking again, finding…

_Oh, Alpha..._

She arches her neck so he can take it.

_Yes, yes._

His breath. Hot, tickles. Hands stroke soothing nothings over her skin and the shadows retreat.

_Open for me. More._

There’s no light, not really.

He’s kissing her, dark, sweet. His urgent tongue slips against hers.

She curves herself up, an offering, a hopeful lure to bring the sinful darkness closer. She would have it consume her until she cannot separate herself from it, until saturates her.

_He is darkness…I…understand…_

She wants to swallow it down, this darkness, let it penetrate her skin and muscle and sinew until it fuses into her bones, dissolves into her blood, into her soul. The scent of lust grows stronger, and he grinds the rigid length of his arousal against her hip, groaning raggedly before recapturing her mouth in a vanquishing assault. She can only cling weakly to his shoulders as the room begins to spin and the shadows snap and skulk in their darkened corners.

The hard heaviness pressing her into the pillows lifts away and she moans slightly. He pulls back to observe her for a long minute.

Something evil flashes out of the corner of her eye. Like a body, like a _corpse_.

She freezes, paralyzed with sudden fear.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he croons so quietly she’s _sure_ she’s imagined it…until he says, “I see it, too.”

The shadow moves again and his eyes flicker to it – _it’s right there_ – and he bares his teeth and stretches out his hand, claw-like.

Candlelight flares, blindingly bright. Too much light.

The thing shrinks away, or so she presumes from behind her tightly shut eyes.

“Nothing’s there. It’s all gone. Promise.” Gentle pressure on her jaw tells her to open her eyes and look at him.

“What was that?” Her voice is quivery. His is velvet-soft. 

“A bad dream, sweetheart. Are you all right?”

_I’ll never be all right again._

She would answer, but she’s distracted and her brow puckers into a puzzled frown. He cut his arm, but she cannot see the wound. There is no wound.

Why?

_The potion you swallowed, Rey. Hux almost killed you._

Hux almost killed her and something’s _wrong_ , but she doesn’t know what, exactly. Fragments of memories pile together in one overwhelming avalanche. All at once everything is too baffling.

_…do you consent to bind your blood in the realms of darkness?_

“Was the High Priest here?”

He nods once, slowly. She does not pull away but neither does she try to press close again.

_…in the future, you might consider taking precautions before you…_

Red death haunts his dilated pupils, but it is not meant for her.

“You mean to find my poisoner?”

He nods grimly and rolls away.

Vengeance.

The thing that pulled them back to the light.

His retribution will surely be terrible to behold. He can never know the truth.

He stands and turns to the fire. The room’s shadows slip from the edges and from behind furniture and under the bed to weave and wrap around him, clinging like a cowl over his broad shoulders and swirling around his ankles with sinister grace.

He’s swathed in it, cloaked in black doom, his pretty eyes glinting endless night. Her lips tremble open, a warning sharp on her tongue, but before the words come, the illusion fades on a soft rush of whispers.

“It’s just your imagination, sweet girl," he tells her softly. "Go back to sleep.”

A thread of compulsion pierces her, and she nods off willingly enough.

It must be as he said, a trick of the light.

It can’t be real. Shadows can’t do that, move like that.

That would be insane.

When she wakes again, she finds herself curled on her side with him spooning around her, a heavy thigh draped over hers, a large, warm palm pressing lightly at the dip of her waist, warm breath tickling over his marks at the back of her neck. She doesn’t need to turn her head to know he’s awake.

Morning sunlight spills into the room like blood, an orangey red that bathes the walls in temporary fire before lightening to a watery pink.

Despite her very near brush with death, she feels…rather amazing, physically at least.

He kisses her hair and she asks about the dagger, the strange chanting, the horrifying pain – _he stabbed himself, then me…hadn’t he? But where are the injuries?_ – then the seductive _darkness_ , how she could see, actually _see_ the bone-white of his skull under his deathly pale flesh, how the black veins snaking over his arms and chest had thrummed and pulsated with _something_ …some kind of _power_ …endless and limitless and beautiful.

Kylo listens patiently while she describes as much as she can recall before he quietly explains she has been poisoned and suffered a miscarriage. He tells her the blood alterant produced a deadly fever that nearly killed her. The rest of it is likely the result of an alchemically induced hallucination, he says.

 _He’s upset_ , she realizes. Rapid guilt lurches through her when he gets out of bed, obviously distraught.

He’s prowling restlessly around the room, insisting he will not leave her alone until she’s asleep again. So, she closes her eyes and pretends to doze. But, all too soon her eyes flash open again with the sudden terror of being left with nothing but the scent of blood to keep her company.

She is sure he’s withholding something, but she has no explanation for her lingering recollections other than a sensation of feeling…tainted. As if her blood has been simultaneously polluted and fortified by some strange evil. As if she’s been defiled.

It must have been a dream. A bad dream.

 _You brought this upon yourself,_ she reminds herself harshly. _Thank the gods he didn’t somehow find out what you did._

"Sleep," he coaxes with gentle insistence and she closes her eyes.

She tries to fall into her meditation again, knowing he’s watching her. The softest brush of a curled finger caressing her cheek tells her to stay quiet. After a few interminable minutes, he tucks a blanket around her and pulls the bedcurtains open. She listens as he makes his way to the parlor just outside the bedchamber. He leaves the door open so he can hear her, and she knows he intends to stay close.

The slight clink of silver on porcelain tells her he’s eating something, the softest murmurs of servants and his command to return later with fresh linens and food tells her he still believes her to be asleep.

Soon other voices intertwine with his own low rumbles, but too soft-spoken for her to distinguish what is being said.

But when one requests a private audience, her ears perk up.

Ominous prickles skip down her spine when she identifies the person speaking.

_Hux._

She keeps her eyes clamped shut, listening to the low-voiced conversation in the next room.

“San Tekka is dead?”

“Yes, Supreme Leader. You might wish to see the body for yourself.”

_What? No…_

Her heart pounds. _If San Tekka is dead, then this was all for naught._

She wipes a grim tear from her cheek, trying to console herself. At least Leia and Luke will have more time.

But…

 _Oh, gods, what have I done?_

“Any suspects?”

“No, my lord. But the message was unquestionably…evident.”

“God’s bloody knot,” Kylo snarls with muted rage. “I was to make a gift of the old traitor’s head to my mother, once she is finally brought in…”

Now Rey’s nerves tingle with full alertness, and she silently thanks the gods Leia has so far managed to evade capture.

“I’ve not received any word on that front, Supreme Leader. Though I expect the bounty hunter you hired will find her eventually.”

Kylo’s indecipherable growl carries unreserved malevolence, nonetheless. Eventually he says, “You will remain on Coruscant. I would charge you to rid the Scrum of traitors and thieves. If you unearth San Tekka’s assassin in the meantime, so much the better.”

“What of the First Order’s armies, my lord? If I am here, who will…?”

“I expect Pryde can manage well enough.”

“So, you still intend to eliminate the Resistance forthwith?”

“I do. Snoke has granted me authority over the Church’s armies upon his safe return to his homeworld. Once they return here, I will use the Sith Eternal and the First Order to bring the galaxy into line.”

Rey does not miss the satisfaction in Hux’s reply, “Yes, Supreme Leader. But if the Church’s forces are diverted escorting the High Priest to Mustafar and the First Order is routed to D’Qar, who shall serve us here in Coruscant in the meantime?”

Her breath freezes in her chest. _How in the hell do they know about D’Qar?_

“I will do as my grandfather before me and enlist the Crimson Dawn into my service.”

Hux’s sneer is unmistakable, “A mobster such as Dryden Vos is hardly a reliable ally, my lord.”

“Which is why _you_ will be directly answerable to me in ensuring his _unwavering_ allegiance…”

Kylo’s unspoken _or else_ hangs boldly in the air and Hux’s tone softens into a grovel. “As you say, Supreme Leader. With your permission, I will apprise General Pryde of your plans myself. I’m sure he will be most eager to proceed to D’Qar…”

“…and obliterate the last of the Resistance…” Kylo finishes darkly. “Meanwhile, I require your utmost discretion on another matter.”

“My lord?”

“I intend to root out the scum who…hurt her…I would not have it widely known someone made an attempt on the princess’s life.”

_He can never know. And if I reveal Hux’s part in this, I will implicate myself and gods knows what will happen then…_

"You seek revenge?"

“I seek justice. You may rest assured blood will be spilled aplenty for the evil committed against my House. If the streets run black with it before my point is made, I _will_ see vengeance done, as well.”

“Such is the price of blood, my lord,” Hux whispers with inscrutable acquiescence.

_Blood was spilled. His and mine…and…_

She looks at the hearth, bare of all but stone and cinder.

_It was but a dream. A hallucination, he said._

The sheets, though, are spattered with dried blood. She tries not to shudder at the gruesome sight.

She shivers and swings her feet over the edge of the bed, pulling on his silk dressing robe from where it is draped over a nearby chair.

Kylo’s promise rings ominously in her head when Mitaka’s soft interruption reaches her. “My lord, I’ve brought her ladyship’s maid, as you’ve requested.”

“You may go in and see her, Rose. I daresay she’s been awake for some time now and would enjoy the company.”

_Rose._

For the first time in days, Rey’s attention is not wholly focused on her husband when Rose barrels into the room and crashes into her with a heartrending squeak and a ferocious hug.

He cannot help but follow the Omega as she bolts into his bedchamber with indecent haste. He is curious to witness the girls' reunion, though he moves at a more decorous pace. Nor can he completely ignore the stab of jealousy at the sight of Rey clinging so happily to her former maid.

Yet even this somewhat vicious sentiment almost instantly eradicates itself when Rey, still clutching a sobbing Rose, looks up at him over the shorter girl’s shiny black hair and throws him a radiant smile.

Her eyes shine with a soft fire that denies how very close she was to the precipice of death’s eternal embrace.

_So full of light. I need not worry her recent sojourn into darkness will have a permanent effect, then._

Still, he observes her shrewdly. Even if she is physically recovered, she will be disturbed and not fully understand why, despite his best attempts to eliminate the worst of her knowledge of _where_ he took her.

Here, in the aftermath, the contrast between life and death is startling. Her lips are red and lush, her hair is soft as a skein of silk, her skin glows lightly through the pale, emphasizing the delightful freckles scattered across her cheeks and bosom.

A powerful sense of ownership floods him as their gazes connect, hers still wild and slightly manic with the quicksilver emotional turmoil of recent events and his glittering black with conflicted yearning. The need to reinforce his claim, knowing they are eternally bonded in this world and the next, battles with the knowledge that if he _does_ take her, in his current state, he will not be able to refrain from his beastly inclinations and will undoubtedly risk...

_We are bonded in blood now…we could…_

Unconsciously, he bites his lips together, pressing them hard between his teeth. He could take anything he wants, now, even her blood. She returns his stare, eyes huge, Rose all but forgotten as animal lust sizzles between them.

With a monumental effort of will, he reigns himself in and tries to soften his regard.

_There are other outlets for your bloodlust. You might redirect it to a more suitable venue._

“Perhaps Rose will assist you to dress and accompany you to your afternoon tea in the orangery, my love? If you feel up to it?” he suggests, donning mild indifference to disguise his own roiling emotions. He is loathe to leave her alone.

As he speaks, Rose extracts herself from Rey’s embrace and solemnly bows her head, although Kylo rather strongly suspects the girl, like his wife, doesn’t own a drop of genuine subservience.

Nevertheless, Rose graciously replies, “I would be most happy to assist, my lord.”

“Will you not join us, my lord?” Rey asks, still wide-eyed at the raw desire flaring between them.

“I would, my darling, but…I have pertinent business to attend to. I cannot delay it.”

 _And if I stay, I will ravish you until we are both lost beyond worlds, come hell what may_.

He almost says it aloud before reminding himself he cannot vocalize such things in proximity to her avidly listening maid. Particularly in light of Doctor Nala Se’s earlier recommendation to abstain for at least a month so the princess might recover.

His gaze drifts to the bed, speckled with blood, though none of it his. No. _His_ blood mingled with hers in the vile realms of unholy darkness.

_She does not comprehend what I have done. She was barely able to consent, let alone understand._

He swallows, uncomfortably aware of the desecration he’s committed.

_She does not know, though I cannot keep it from her forever. A violation so sacrilegious…so profane…_

_…she will never forgive me for it…_

And now that he’s thinking on all the unforgivable things he’s done lately, his bargain with Snoke pushes to the forefront of his thoughts. 

Kylo will be the first to admit the idea of an heir at this point is more conceptual than tangible; he has no inkling what to do with a child once it actually arrives. This particular concern will surely fall under his wife’s purview, at least until…

Until he must fulfill his vow to the High Priest.

She’s watching him and seeing far too much, and Kylo reminds himself their bond is ever more steadfast for the blood magic he used on her.

He shutters his eyes and concentrates on the task at hand.

_We are bound, and I would bring you the head of the unmitigated fool who thought to harm you and who stole my heir from your womb._

“Rose?” Kylo finally grunts. “Await her ladyship in her chambers.”

At Rose’s confusion, Rey murmurs, “Just opposite these rooms through the antechamber. I will be along shortly.”

Rose dips into a perfect curtsy and slips from the room.

“San Tekka is dead?” Rey's eyes sweep his in search of confirmation, unapologetic for her obvious eavesdropping.

She looks a touch upset and it occurs to him perhaps she holds some sorrow over her old mentor’s demise, despite the rogue’s deviousness.

“According to Hux, he was slaughtered in his cell last night,” Kylo admits, unsure how much she overheard. “Someone bled him out quite efficiently.”

Her voice grows strident and her mouth tightens as she asks, “Did General Hux say _when_ it happened?”

“Sometime during the ball, he suspects.”

“Not after?” She moves to lean into him, and he inhales her scent. It’s almost painfully sweet though noticeably tinged with distress.

Carefully, he grips her arms and stands her upright. If she stays too close, his chivalry be damned, he’ll take her here and now against the wall…or on the floor…or…

Her fists clench at her side and he cocks his head in query. “After? Does it matter?”

“Yes!” she cries. “ _Yes._ It matters. He was a vagabond and a scoundrel and con artist of the worst sort. And apparently quite a bit more than he ever deigned to tell me, and yet…”

“The old man meant something to you, in spite of his sins,” Kylo mutters. “I understand.”

“Then you must know why it matters _when_! If he died _after_ the ball…when we…when we were…”

_Ah. Of course._

“I will examine his body myself and ascertain the truth. Never fear. If I know anything, it is death.”

She swallows and mumbles a reluctant thanks, then steps close again. The scent of her, the sight of her wearing his robe is nearly more than he can bear.

“You have commissioned General Hux to clear the Scrum. And to use gangsters to do it?” she asks, trailing a finger over the front of his tunic.

Kylo gives her a curt nod, wondering why she cares. “The Scrum is the likeliest origin of the poison and assassin who tried to take your life.”

“I would ask a favor, my lord.” Her eyes swim with tears, and his heart sinks, instantly apprehensive.

“What would you have of me, my darling?”

“People still live there. Below Market Level. Not all of them are criminals.”

“I suppose that depends on your definition of criminal. I suspect they all indulge in a spot of crime here and there to exist in such unsavory locales.”

“Perhaps so, my lord, but I will not have innocents harmed in the process. I beg you do not trust General Hux out of your sight with such an important charge. He is…a pitiless man.”

She is right, although it irks him. “What would you have me do?” His question emerges more harshly than intended, but he is unable to contain his frustration. He had planned to trust Hux enlist the Crimson Dawn to scythe through the Scrum until none are left to sell poison ever again.

“I would have you accompany him and ensure the safety of those who cannot fend for themselves. There might be children…”

“And what am I to do with them, Rey?” He runs a hand through his hair, exasperated. “If their parents are dead, am I to leave them to starve in the sewers?”

“Do you truly wish to be known as cruel and merciless as…?” She breaks off.

“As my grandfather?”

“You are not him.”

“So I’ve been told,” he grits out.

"They are still our people, though they may be of lowborn heritage.”

_Ah, well done, my girl. That certainly cuts to the quick._

“Mercy is all I ask of you."

“I am not a merciful man, princess.” His blunt declaration makes her lips quiver and tears spill down her pretty face, but his heart caves in as it always seems to do with her. He sighs, “But for you, I will try.”

Her mouth curves into a tremulous smile, and he decides to change the subject.

“Perhaps when I return, we ought to have a quiet game of Dejarik?” he cajoles. “Half the palace and our guests are still retired to their quarters from the Knotted Moon. Besides I’m sure I have found an advantage over you this time.”

“How’s that?” she giggles, sending more light spearing into his heart, so much it worries him.

“Because of your newfound love of mercy, of course. Surely it will extend to me on the Dejarik boards, if nowhere else.”

She shakes her head in playful denial. “You will find me more ruthless than ever, my lord. I can assure you I have unplumbed depths in that regard.”

“I’m sure you do, sweetheart.”

“Ben?”

“Hmmm?”

“Do you mean for Rose to stay with me…for a while?”

“If that is what you wish, my love, then yes. I gave her to the soldier Finn, but I’m sure we shall come to some arrangement. If it makes you smile thus, she may serve you for as long as you wish.”

Though Kylo noticed immediately the maid remains yet unclaimed, the Omega still technically and legally belongs to Finn. But if coercing the girl into Rey’s service again makes Rey happy…

_The soldier will do as he’s bloody well told._

“And what of dear Phasma? Will she not feel displaced?”

“I think not. Phasma may find it a relief, actually, given her other household duties that occupy her time. With the palace filled with guests and you still indisposed…” Vague sorrow scours the back of his throat. “She will have plenty to keep her busy, I’m sure. I trust you and your maid will not get yourselves into too much mischief now you’re reunited?”

“We will try,” Rey beams. “Thank you for thinking of…” She pauses and tilts her head, eyes filling with tears again. “…for my sake. And…I’m so, so dreadfully sorry…for…everything...”

Self-loathing burns inside him, and he hauls her close, unable to bear either her gratitude or her sorrow.

He shushes her and kisses the top of her head and it’s all he can do to hide the rapid surge of wrath boiling in his chest, igniting a renewed desire to spill blood like nothing ever has.

Purposefully, if not abruptly, he ushers her to her apartments and leaves her with Rose before his benign expression falls from his face, to be replaced with ugly resolve.

Someone hurt her. And now they will pay for it.

He makes sure her doors are securely barred before he addresses the Omicrons standing guard just outside.

“Here forth, you will double the men guarding the princess,” he snaps, finally allowing his blistering fury to uncoil. “And if my wife so much as stubs her little toe, I swear on the head of Zeus himself I will have every last one of you executed for treason.”

Their prompt salute does nothing to pacify him as he storms to the dungeons, Hux trailing in his wake.

His heart sinks when he arrives at his destination a few minutes later. 

Kylo squats next to the pool of blood covering the cell floor, dragging a gloved finger through the foul, sticky mess and sniffing at it.

San Tekka’s corpse still hangs shackled to the wall, its obvious injuries indicating the man’s killer is almost as experienced a bloodletter as Kylo himself.

“It appears to have happened during the ball, my lord. I would have brought you sooner, but your Knights refused to admit me an audience until this morning…” Hux pauses delicately, leaving the implication clear.

_Had I been available, not distracted, I would be so much closer to finding the killer._

Whoever did this left a message, indeed.

The traitor’s blood is too far dead and gone and with it Kylo’s opportunity to divine anything useful.

_Gods-be-damned._

But he keeps his disappointment to himself.

There is still much he can learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long time between updates. Since the last time I posted, things have become sort of...apocalyptic...where I live. Not to be dramatic, but yeah.
> 
> You would think with all this extra at-home time I would be able to write more, but no such luck. 
> 
> That being said, I have already made excellent headway on the next couple of chapters, so hopefully won't be too long before the next update.
> 
> I wish you all health, safety, happiness, and the knowing that we can and WILL find the light after the dark, if only we remember to look for it and love each other...


	25. Daggers Drawn

# Chapter Twenty-Five – Daggers Drawn

_You will make a most diverting puzzle for him, even as we begin to tear down the pillars of monarchy._

_You will not be trained in comportment, nor overly exposed to the particular mannerisms or habits of the royal court. I think it better if you maintain an unpolished air, a demeanor of unschooled naiveté so as to keep him thinking of all the ways in which he might educate you…_

_He will want to mold you to his will, or believe he is doing so. He will consider you as clay to be formed into his own design, not knowing you have already been fired in the kiln of the Resistance, yes?_

She trails an idle finger through the still waters of the fishpond in the orangery and smiles faintly as the unusual little creatures swim close to nibble at her fingertips. In the distance, the lightest twang and thrum of a lute drifts to her ears.

Even after her guests roused themselves from the Knotted Moon and began to return to their home systems, Rey asked the troupe she hired for the ball to remain at the palace indefinitely and lift the gloomy atmosphere that’s descended over the City.

_Fish. Such odd little things._

_I cannot imagine entire planets filled with water and creatures like this, though I’ve been told they exist. How amazing_.

But her mind turns all too quickly from the fish.

Hux’s advice in favor of _taking_ _precautions_ haunts her relentlessly.

It is becoming more and more difficult to fend off her husband’s amorous advances as the days pass. Though his temperament has grown terrifyingly fearsome as he seeks to find her so-called _poisoner_ , in private he’s been far too attentive and considerate, and it only adds to the burden of guilt slowly killing her.

To make matters both better and worse, she's only just learned the Resistance was tipped off in the nick of time and escaped before the First Order found them on D'Qar. She strongly suspects it was Hux himself who warned them, though she cannot prove it. This turn of events has only increased Kylo's already erratic temperament, and he vacillates wildly between brooding dictator and gentle husband, depending upon the company they're in.

On the rare occasions he must leave her, she is surrounded by guards who hover with suffocating watchfulness. At the moment, they stand respectfully just out of earshot on the other side of the glass walls of the orangery, but Rey has a sneaking suspicion they report her every move back to her husband with fervent diligence.

_He’s probably threatened them with disembowelment and worse if anything happens to me. It’s all my own damned fault…_

Rose sits nearby, watching her as closely as the guards. She holds a bit of needlework to appear simultaneously busy and harmless to the eyes of the ever-present Omicrons.

In addition to the increased guards, until just moments ago, Phasma has hovered persistently, not allowing a even a single moment for Rey and Rose to converse on their own.

But Phasma has just been called to deal with an unexpected disaster in the kitchens, leaving the two of them finally alone.

_And I am running out of time._

Not wishing to draw the guards’ interest, Rey waves Rose over to sit beside her at the edge of the fish pool. She must take advantage of this chance while the circumstance presents itself, unsure of when the next prospect for a confidential discussion might come her way. “Come, watch the fishes with me, Rose.”

Rose obeys, her dark eyes sweeping Rey’s with concern. “Are you all right my lady?” Rose murmurs, reading Rey’s misery quite accurately.

_If I have to hold this inside anymore, I’ll burst._

“I’m doing very well. And somehow, not at all well…” Rey whispers so softly Rose strains close to listen. “Rose…I’ve done something…very dangerous. And...”

_I've committed the cruelest of treacheries. I’ve betrayed him so badly. I don't know if I can ever forgive myself...and I'm so frightened._

Rose tilts her head and pretends to chase a fish through the water with her finger before she whispers back, “You can tell me anything, my lady. What is it?”

Rey holds her friend’s gaze for a long minute before slipping evasively to the fishes once again.

“What is the gossip of me among the servants, Rose?”

“That his lordship intends to breed an heir on you and become Emperor,” Rose replies promptly, keeping her voice low.

Rey nods, not surprised. “And what else?”

“They love you, my lady. They claim you will free the Scrums from tyranny and bring peace to the galaxy. Your phoenix flies nearly as far and wide as his lordship’s Black Sun, or so Finn tells me.”

“How is it you have not been mated to your soldier, yet?”

Rose smiles and rolls her eyes. “Oh! Well, apparently, his lordship gave me to the _only_ gentleman in the entire First Order.”

Rey bites the inside of her cheek, grinning back at Rose, momentarily distracted. “Really? But what about…? You know…?”

“The Knot of the Moon?” Rose giggles. “Oh, la! When we first arrived, Finn was so worried he would get carried away, he locked me in his quarters and took himself off drinking for days.”

“He didn’t!”

“Yes, and when he returned, he was so terribly hungover…and then he had to drill the next day…oh! Poor lad.”

“So…you two haven’t…?”

Rose’s dark eyes shine with mirth and she shakes her head _no_.

“Why not?” Perhaps the question is far to personal, but Rey is suddenly curious, having only her own tumultuous marriage as a frame of reference.

“I suppose…well…I suppose he will make sure I really want to first, my lady.”

“Do you _not_ want to? What about this last time? Were you able to…er, manage? During the Knotted Moon?”

Rose’s cheeks bloom with pink. “I don’t know how I feel about Finn. And until I decide, I’ve found a good alchemist on Market Street who’s been able to give me some suppressants to, um, take the edge off.”

Of course. While neither Kylo nor Rey are expected to alter their biology, the rest of the world must cater to necessity. Suppressants and blockers for everyone else is part and parcel of the daily routine.

“An alchemist?”

“She’s highly reputable. And discreet.”

“Rose. I need something to keep me from getting pregnant. And soon.”

Rose agrees with a sage nod. “Yes, that would be wise. Although there have been rumors of that, too.”

“Have there been?” Rey muses distractedly. “How would…the people feel about it?”

“Honestly, I think they would love the idea, but we both know it would devastate the Resis… _you know_.”

“The people would love it? If I _was_ pregnant?”

“Rejoicing. Why…?”

“And if they knew…if I _had been_ …but now I’m not? Because _I did_ something.”

Rey holds her friend’s stare so significantly there is no mistaking her meaning. As understanding dawn’s on Rose’s face, Rey cannot help her eyes from filling with tears. Oddly, the result is less from Rose’s sympathetic reaction and more because of the loathsome guilt swamping her.

_He can never, ever find out what I’ve done._

“Your _indisposition_? Rey. Oh, gods, that’s so risky. That’s High Treason. If he ever knew,” Rose echoes her thoughts all too exactly.

“I _know._ I know. But, I didn’t…”

“…have a choice,” Hux growls, approaching so silently both women flinch in surprise as he draws near.

He gives a short, chivalrous bow, though he’s seething with malevolence. Probably because that last bit of conversation could have been overheard by anyone.

_You aren’t paying nearly enough attention, Rey…what if it had been a servant or Phasma or someone else?_

Rose takes to her feet, bristling with hostility, not mistaking the Alpha’s noiseless approach as anything less than the veiled threat it is.

Rey remains seated. To rise now would indicate she is Hux’s equal.

_None can match me, you bastard._

Deliberately, she refrains from inviting the general to sit. He must remain standing if he would maintain formality for appearance’s sake.

_He’s obviously found me for a reason. Whatever could he want, I wonder?_

His not-unpleasant scent drifts to her nose, spiked with the slightest aggression, and Rey’s stomach churns with nerves as his lip curls into a carnivorous smile. He scans Rose with such lewd boldness the fine hairs at the back of Rey’s neck stand on end.

“Why so jumpy, little one? Afraid I might cause some _harm_ to your dear mistress?”

“Mind yourself, General!” Rey snaps.

His impeccable mannerisms and grooming belies the air of casual cruelty emanating from him. He sniffs, flaring his nostrils with the tiniest inflection of insolence.

Rose surely must feel intimidated, though she keeps her small shoulders thrown back, chin lifted in defiance of the Alpha’s implied warning.

Clearly, he feels the need to press his point. “This little _Omega_ is hardly sufficient protection, considering the current circumstances. Or are you not aware _someone_ is trying to assassinate you?”

“General Hux. I insist you conform your speech into something approximating manners,” Rey retorts, furious at the man’s rudeness. “I do not permit such vulgar talk in my company.”

“Ah. Forgive me, your ladyship. And you, too, little maid.”

Hux puts on a moue of such genuine apology, Rey’s chills only increase as he snatches up Rose’s hand and plants a lingering kiss on the back. If Rose pulls away now, anyone watching the exchange will notice something amiss and come to investigate.

_Gods, he’s sly as a serpent and twice as devious._

Rose is virtually blistering with spite as he continues, “Of course I am only concerned for your ladyship’s well-being. And this _unmated_ wisp of a girl is hardly an adequate guarantee of your safety, my lady.”

“Think again,” Rey snarls, baring her teeth in something resembling a smile.

Rose’s drawn blade is at Rey’s eye level, prodding with unmistakable menace at the man’s groin.

“ _Touché._ ” Hux’s eyes freeze into glacial pools and he stares down his aquiline nose with icy contempt. “Well. If we’re introducing blades, perhaps you’ll meet my Millicent?”

As smoothly as Rose had done, he pulls a wicked-looking cat’s claw dagger and holds the lethal gut-hook tip to Rose’s ribcage, angled so only Rey can see.

“That’s enough!” Rey demands.

After a tense heartbeat or two, Hux spins his dagger back out of sight, magician-like, but Rose holds her ground.

If he’s been in communication with Leia, Hux will likely know all about Rose, but Rose has no idea of the extent of Hux’s involvement, nor will she, if Rey can help it. The less her maid knows, the safer she will be. The last thing she needs is a mongrel like Hux sniffing around.

“Rose, I would have you go inside and ring for tea. I’ll take it in the gardens just outside. It’s all right.”

Rose’s blade vanishes as swiftly as it appeared, and she falls into a curtsy. “You may be assured I will take care of _the_ _matter_ , my lady.”

Rey knows she’s referring to more than just ordering up a spot of tea. She’ll help Rey get her hands on some birth control.

_At least that will be one less thing to worry over._

Rose takes her leave with a slight scowl in the General’s direction, and Hux keeps his own supercilious leer fixed firmly in place until she’s gone.

Then he turns his sneer on Rey and offers an oily, “You look quite blooming, my lady. Although I hear condolences are in order.”

“For which loss?” Rey grinds out between her teeth, allowing herself to show a trace of bitter displeasure. “San Tekka is _dead_. Hardly what we agreed to.”

“He was likely dead or dying before we even danced.”

_He’s right, dammit._

As promised, Kylo confirmed San Tekka’s execution very likely occurred just as the ball was underway.

_He’s done everything he can to ease my mind. And he’s been so…tender…_

All of a sudden, she wants to cry again, and this time not for San Tekka.

Hux’s back and forth pacing irritates her, so she snaps, “Oh, for the sake of the gods! Either be seated and explain why you’re here or leave me the hell alone.”

He settles his lanky frame into an empty garden chair and crosses an ankle over his knee. His posture could be more respectful, and she would remonstrate him for it, but she can no longer withhold her accusation.

“You said it would be undetectable, and it looked like a gods-be-damned poisoning!”

“It _was_ undetectable by _scan_ , if you’ll recall,” he drawls without a trace of apology. “I was told the High Priest divined it as poison. His intervention could _not_ have been predicted.”

“I could have died. _Hera_ will be furious.”

“She isn’t here, and I am.” He plants both feet on the ground and leans forward, elbows on his knees, raking her with a shrewd gaze. “Besides, you look well enough. I don’t perceive any lasting harm done. You’ll do well to remember while you’re warming the Supreme Leader’s bed and whoring expensive trinkets out of him, some of us are truly putting our lives at stake.”

“My life _was_ at stake,” Rey insists. “That potion you gave me nearly did me in.” She’s still unsure if Hux actually intended to kill her, but the idea of her near-death being accidental is even less comforting. Especially in light of Kylo’s reaction to the entire affair. “Needless to say, my lord husband will not rest until my… _poisoning_ is avenged.”

Hux slides her another calculating stare, and his cold appraisal makes her skin crawl.

“Who is your greatest enemy at court, then?”

 _You are_ , she thinks. Aloud she asks, “Enemy?”

“No enemies? Everyone simply adores you? A rival, then.” Hux inspects his fingernails with irritating insouciance.

She swallows her outrage and tries to think logically. She must salvage what she can of this mess. If she reveals Hux as the one who gave her the potion that nearly killed her, she will only implicate herself and cause irreparable damage to the precious time she’s bought for Leia.

... _and if my husband ever learns what I have done…he’ll hate me beyond all bounds._

“Just so we’re clear. You came here to ask me for someone to frame for the crime of poisoning me?”

“Absolutely. Do you not have the stomach for it?”

She considers her options. Certainly, she might throw Lady Bazine into the proverbial lion’s den, and at the moment the idea holds a definite appeal.

_You must be ruthless Rey._

But after Kylo’s vicious execution of Canady over a mere insult, Rey can only guess how much worse his treatment of an accused assassin will be.

No, she is unwilling to bring such punishment upon another person.

_If you choose to make an enemy, choose wisely._

Instead of answering, she prevaricates. “While we’re on the topic of High Treason, might I inquire why you don’t just try to kill my husband? Surely you’ve had ample opportunity all this time?”

Hux barks a laugh and a glimmer of respect lights his pale eyes. “I have my reasons for wanting him to remain very much alive. For the moment. I’m terribly flattered you concern yourself with my motives, my lady. But I think I shall keep you guessing.”

Undaunted, she circles back to his earlier remark.

“Do you really believe someone tried to kill me?” she asks coldly, “Or was it you?”

“If I wanted you dead, please believe you would be very much deceased, my lady.”

“Then, what of the potion? Was it an error?”

“I know not. But I assure you I have already had a very serious confrontation with my alchemist over the matter.”

“And San Tekka?”

Hux’s enigmatic reply sends a shiver of foreboding down to her fingertips. “Someone certainly seems to be finding your weak spots, don’t they? And exploiting them all too effectively.”

_Rose._

_He is neither my friend, nor partner, nor ally._

She is briefly tempted to ask him if it was he who warned the Resistance of the impending attack, but she suspects Hux will only view her ignorance as a sign of weakness. Instead, she says, “I will not be party to framing an innocent person. Find another way to disguise this so-called attempt on my life. It's your mess. You ought to clean it up.”

He heaves an exaggerated, aggrieved sigh. “Very well. But if I might offer a bit of advice...?”

“Say your piece, and then begone.”

Abruptly, he stands with a rueful shake of his head and murmurs not unkindly, “This is no game. I would watch my back if I were you. I would mobilize some more _serious_ allies before finding myself utterly stranded in this quagmire, all alone.”

She lifts her chin with as much haughty disdain as she can muster and utters, “Your advice is noted, General. You are dismissed.”

_I am not you, General. It is my fate to be alone. Always._

* * *

“You might take more care before you advance your guard, dear husband,” Rey smirks from across the Dejarik board, and Kylo detects more than a trace of gloating even as his heart pounds into a hearty gallop at her easy endearment.

Firelight paints half her visage in warmth, leaving the other half silhouetted in shadows. A heavy thread of lust twines between them, and his sexual frustration only expands, as he's not been able to do a damned thing about it for weeks.

The days and weeks after the ball and her poisoning have been filled with near-painful longing coupled with simmering undercurrents of darkness from their blood bond, though she knows nothing of that last. Still, she emanates a wildness and tempestuous sensuality that is only enhanced by his own secret awareness of just how closely linked they are. She wants him, too, he is certain. 

But no matter how badly they want each other, it is best to wait. By mutual agreement, they have managed to curtail the worst of their ardor, usually with her breaking off with a breathless _the doctor said we mustn’t…we should wait._

So, for the past few days he’s done his best to avoid her, at least when she's awake. He hates to allow her out of his sight unless absolutely necessary, but he supposes he can distract himself for a while longer.

And he has plenty to divert his attention. He has spent no small bit of time over past several weeks in an increasingly frustrating hunt for her attempted murderer. He has yet to even guess at a plausible motive, though his gut tells him her near-death is somehow connected to Lor San Tekka’s.

And D'Qar, what an utterly disappointing debacle that has been. Pryde is dragging his heels in returning to Coruscant, and Kylo has already vowed to punish the man for his incompetence. 

He deliberately shoves his annoyance aside, focusing again on his pretty little wife. 

Her gown is rumpled beneath her legs as she sits curled in the opposite chair, exposing a slim, stockinged leg. He wonders if the stocking on her other leg is mismatched, as he's found more often than not. A few charming wisps of hair have inevitably slipped free of her chignon.

Perhaps she is unaware of how her unintentional dishevelment sparks his rampant desire. He's certainly been trying to keep it well hidden. But he has been very much dwelling on it.

The anticipation only strains his control to the breaking point.

Her hand stretches out to take his goblet in a now familiar dance, slender fingers lightly brushing his. Sip, ponder, move, misdirect. Murmur a bit of witty conversation to distract. Sip, pass the goblet, smirk…

…dammit, she’s smirking and sipping and it’s making him achingly hard.

As ever, Snoke’s oft-repeated admonitions to beware the wiles of woman settles uncomfortably on his shoulders, but he does his best to shrug it off and look at the board.

He’s beginning to realize how much of her game is feinting, smoke and mirrors, and his admiration for her cleverness only expands as he recognizes how subtly done it all is.

She’s quite magnificent, really. But, it's not going to be enough this evening.

He’s never played so well, nor so astutely.

His lips press together to keep from grinning – he’s _sure_ he has her now – and he sets his _Mantellian_ to threaten her armies in a countergambit that places him in excellent standing.

She’s done for.

She observes passively enough, showing no sign her position is in jeopardy, though he cannot see any escape for her. Not this time.

For a welcome change.

 _All must come to face the Reaper eventually, my darling,_ he crows smugly.

Her scent wafts to him, and although she reportedly spent a pleasantly quiet afternoon in the orangery, he senses a restlessness from her. Perhaps she heard of the few riots breaking out over the city, or perhaps she yet worries over the people displaced from his recent raid of the Scrum. She mentioned her concerns earlier just today, and while he refused to give her any gory details, he did assure her he had personally taken the matter in hand and has mitigated the carnage as best he could.

And after revising his original plans from obliterating everyone and everything in his path to a more conscientious, _targeted_ approach, he sent Hux to collaborate with Dryden Vos, the Crimson Dawn’s mafia head.

With Kylo’s sanction, Vos will make short work of keeping civil order in the Scrum, though the man will need to be watched. 

Still, with the help of the Crimson Dawn here in Coruscant, Kylo’s previously overstretched armies will now be able to simultaneously seek and destroy Luke Skywalker and fully enforce the rule of law over the nuisance systems still claiming to hold themselves separate from the rest of the Empire.

_If my uncle and the Resistance continue to run and hide like the cowardly dogs they are, perhaps a more blatant threat is required to draw them out again._

_I’ll start with Hosnia._

Hosnia's defection was unexpected, especially after the ball, which had been held in honor of the Hosnian Equinox. 

Kylo's regard returns to Rey, who observes him with somber curiosity. It comes in waves, the light and the dark, and will do so for many more days until her spirits finally shuck off the layers of Underworld shade that seeped into her.

_Into us both._

She places her next piece and he watches alertly, sensing a trap. But she merely reclines back into her seat and sips from their goblet with a quirked brow, silently commanding him to do his worst. The slightest hint of irony plays at her mouth, and he finds himself once again fantasizing about kissing her breathless.

But though she smiles, he perceives a lingering sadness, a grief he can easily guess as to the source.

The loss of San Tekka following so quickly on the heels of her miscarriage would have crushed anyone with a weaker disposition.

 _She’s troubled_ , he thinks. _And unbearably sad. Almost...broken._

“Break, break, break,” he mutters before realizing he’s spoken aloud, and her eyes flash to his, startled.

“What?”

He clears his throat, suddenly feeling like a sentimental fool. “It’s nothing. Just a rather morbid bit of poetry on my mind.”

“Oh,” she sighs. “Would you recite it for me? I’m feeling rather morbid myself this evening.”

Her confession holds such endearing shyness, he cannot refuse.

He studies the board and mumbles quietly, “It’s ancient Tennyson. It goes:

_Break, break, break,_   
_On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!_   
_And I would that my tongue could utter_   
_The thoughts that arise in me._

_O, well for the fisherman’s boy,_   
_That he shouts with his sister at play!_   
_O, well for the sailor lad,_   
_That he sings in his boat on the bay!_

_And the stately ships go on_  
 _To their haven under the hill;_  
 _But O for the touch of a vanished hand_  
 _And the sound of a voice that is still!_

_Break, break, break,_   
_At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!_   
_But the tender grace of a day that is dead_   
_Will never come back to me.”_

“Oh,” she breathes. “You are so fond of quoting poems of the sea and I have never…”

She halts, clearly lost in reverie, and he wonders _which_ ocean she’s thinking of, whether it is the one he shared with her right after their mating or the more recent version, a vast ocean of red death.

“Would you like to?” he asks, watching her for signs of despair. “See one?”

“A sea?”

“Yes. Perhaps…” _Once I’ve found and murdered your attempted assassin and brought the City under order._ “Perhaps we might make a journey to Naboo for a time and enjoy a bit of a holiday?”

“Perhaps,” she finally concedes. It strikes him too late she would know all about Naboo, his grandmother’s homeworld, and his mention of it brings an unwelcome awareness of the rift in his family.

She lifts a brow and sips her wine and he almost rescinds the offer. But she is distraught, and he wants to make it stop. He hates this powerless feeling, despises how he has not a singular notion as to how he might divert her attention into happier realms.

“It’s quite lovely there.” He should stop talking, but he can’t seem to. “I haven’t been since I was a child.”

“Were you _ever_ a child, my lord?”

A soft, albeit genuine smile lights her face, even if she remains subdued.

He smiles back, but inside he goes morose, wishing he never brought the topic to light. He does not particularly like to dwell on his disastrously unhappy childhood, so again he seeks to change the subject.

Neither of them are paying much mind to the board anymore.

“I trust young Rose is settling into her reprised role as your lady’s maid?” he inquires, standing and taking the goblet from her hand so he might refill it from a nearby decanter.

“Yes, but I must wonder how the soldier Finn feels about it.”

“He should be grateful, I expect. I’ve promoted him to a permanent guard position in the palace so he might be quartered with Rose nearby.”

The guard from Rey’s escapade in the tunnels needed replacing and it seemed a fortuitous opportunity.

Besides, with his armies stretched across the galaxy, the Omicrons will have plenty else to do than guard low-risk areas of the palace.

“That was most generous of you, my lord,” she comments.

“It’s nothing.”

Her eyes glint, still haunted, and instead of returning the goblet to her hand, he sets it on the table beside her.

A vague tension hangs between them, full of secrets and sorrow. He traces the back of a finger over her soft cheek and powerful yearning warms his chest when she leans into his hand to extend the caress.

_Perhaps tonight. It's been nearly a month...and her scent..._

_Mine._

“Would you tell me another poem? Please?”

“Of course, my love. Anything you wish.”

_Anything at all._

He combs his memory for something that might cheer her and maybe even put her in the mood for a spot of lovemaking.

But a soft knock at the door interrupts his musings.

Kylo turns and calls out, “Enter!” and Mitaka steps just inside.

_He brings news._

_Good news, if his expression is any indication._

“My lord,” Mitaka states, “She’s been brought in. Your lady mother.”

For the first time in weeks, some unfathomable energy releases itself, a tension he did not know he was holding.

_Gods, yes, it’s about bloody well time._

“I trust she will find my dungeons well-readied for her visitation?”

“Yes, Supreme Leader. She’s been taken there directly. She’s…ah, demanding an immediate audience, milord.”

“Let her languish there for now.” Beside him, Rey inhales sharply and he grips her shoulder, silently ordering her to hold her tongue.

Despite himself, his mouth curves into a cruel snarl, all intentions of tenderness abandoned in the wake of triumph surging through him.

“Triple her guards. There will be no breaking free this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All righty, then. A few things:
> 
> 1\. Wherever you are in the world, I hope you are well and safe and taking good care of your health in these unprecedented times. Although the world is a scary place right now, I choose to have hope and faith in the human spirit. And while global leadership is delivering various levels of competence in the wake of disaster, I hope we can remind ourselves to have compassion for each other. 
> 
> 2\. I'm on day twelve of quarantine and I expect to be isolated for at least another month, minimum. Being entirely alone, I have a lot of feelings right now, but despite all of that, you all are definitely helping me to not feel lonely. That being said, please remember to cherish your loved ones without abandon or restraint. When we all emerge from this global disaster, the world will be changed. We cannot go back in time and do things differently, but we can choose today to live in love for each other, and when this is over we can look back and know we did the right thing. 
> 
> 3\. On the story: I *might* have mentioned on Twitter this (current) chapter was to be named "Mother of Ruin" but I'm saving that for next chapter, for obvious reasons, given Leia's eminent appearance. Honestly, as I was writing this, I had no clue I would need a whole chapter to set things up...but we've arrived at middle game, my darlings. I *think* all the pieces are right where I want them...finally. :)
> 
> 4\. To every single one of you working in an essential service: If you or one of your loved ones is putting your life on the line for all the rest of us, please believe you have my undying respect. Words cannot express my feelings for you. You are fricking heroes, literally. And when this pandemic goes down in the history books, as it surely will, I hope it is all of you who are lauded as the ones worthy of humanity's everlasting gratitude. Not the slimy politicians or the greedy capitalists or the spoiled, ignorant celebrities. But you. 
> 
> Godspeed, rebels. 
> 
> XOXO,  
> Amy B.


	26. Mother of Ruin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind those tags for emotional constipation. And, uh…the Kylo isn’t nice tag...and maybe just take a sec and review all those tags, okay? Yeah…that would be good…
> 
> ...ooohhh, I'm EXCITED for this one...

# Chapter Twenty-Six – Mother of Ruin

Mitaka bows and retreats from the bedchamber, and Rey listens as the door clicks softly closed, her legs still tucked beneath her.

Her mind whirls over the news she just heard. She takes a deep breath, knowing she must remain calm and coolheaded. She forces herself into stillness, trying not to shrug off the firm grip pressing down on her shoulders.

_I mustn’t panic…but Leia imprisoned in the dungeons…it’s untenable…_

The dungeons cannot, by any stretch of the imagination, be suitable quarters for one such as Leia Organa. She is herself a princess, and unlike Rey, Leia was actually raised as royalty. She cannot reside in a dungeon indefinitely, far below the comforts of the palace, left helpless and alone in some dank cell carved out of stone.

Judging by his scent alone, Leia’s dark prince of a son doesn’t seem at all perturbed over the idea. In fact, happy victory rolls off him from where he stands behind her. She can almost feel the heat of it tickling the back of her neck with near tangible energy.

“ _Hmmm_. Now, where were we?” He smooths his thumbs over her shoulders through the thin material of her dress, then rubs a knuckle across her nape, brushing gently over the bite marks he put there. The slight caress sends tingles all the way to the ends of her fingers and tips of her toes. “Something on your mind, my darling?”

Evidently, he intends to pick up right where they left off before Mitaka interrupted.

She tries to put thoughts of Leia in a cold dungeon cell far from her mind and quickly finds she cannot. He pauses, reading her floundering emotions. _Damn_.

“My gods-damned mother cannot _possibly_ have worse timing, I think,” he rumbles, brusquely removing his hand to snatch up the wine goblet and resume his seat across from her. “I would swear if I didn’t know any better she’s timed her arrival on purpose.”

“Perhaps the fault lies more with your bounty hunter than your mother, milord.”

Rey manages a mild reply, though her pulse thunders unevenly at his stormy display of ill-humor. She’s grown rather accustomed to his displeasure being directed elsewhere and not at all in her direction. For some reason of late, his mercurial temperament affects her own disposition all too easily, and it unsettles her, especially now in light of such a sensitive topic. She knows very well his feelings for his mother are far more complex than he lets on, and she is treading on sensitive ground.

Sure enough, his mouth pulls into a sulk and he admonishes, “I would advise you to put any thoughts of _her_ to rest. All you needs concern yourself with at the moment is losing your perfect rank at the gaming dens. I think there will be more than a few surprised gamblers parting with coin this evening.”

She glances at the board but the gesture is offhand, and she knows he can see her concentration is shot to hell and gone. 

“There will be no stopping me now, sweetheart, so you must prepare yourself for the inevitable,” he goads, eyes aglow like the coals in the hearth beside her.

His scent envelops her, heavy with musky arousal. Suddenly the air is thick as butter.

Rey stares at the Dejarik table, but her mind is on a different game altogether. For a few minutes, she considers how she might go about seducing her husband to win a very _particular_ favor. 

_Get yourself in order. Find some leverage._

The answer seems ridiculously simple. As promised, Rose managed to smuggle her a _digestive tonic_ just before dinner, after making a very quick trip to her alchemist in Market Level. Now is as good a time as any.

Throwing caution to the stars, she says casually, “Did I mention? After tea in the orangery this afternoon, I met with Doctor Nala Se.”

“Did you?” His voice drops an octave, full of predatory alertness.

“I did."

"And what did the good doctor tell you?"

"Well, um. She said enough time has passed, since… She said I might…that is… _we_ might…”

Swallowing her nerves in one determined gulp, she tugs at the neckline of her dress, exposing the barest view of collarbone.

She lifts an eyebrow and bites her lip, trying for seductive but sure she is far too nervous to get her point across.

_Whoever would have guessed making a sexual advance is infinitely more difficult when one is not under the power of the Knotted Moon?_

She steals a glance at him and at the smolder in his eyes, her heartbeat kicks into a slow, sultry cadence. Apparently, he’s picking up on her hint just fine. Slick trickles between her legs as his attention fixes like a laser beam on the bit of skin she’s put on display.

His eyes level unwaveringly to her mouth. Slowly, she licks her lips. Another wave of his scent wafts to her, heated and masculine and unbearably hypnotic.

Abruptly, he lowers his gaze and glowers at their game, his thoughts utterly shielded from her. So, when he finally speaks again, she is startled.

“Perhaps I was too harsh and might reconsider my mother's _lodgings_ in exchange for…” He breaks off too quickly and her mind scrambles to finish his sentence.

_Does he mean…?_

“In exchange for what, my lord?” she breathes, meeting his torpid stare as directly as she can, though her nerves flutter like moths turned loose under her skin.

If he’s suggesting sex, she certainly won’t object. She genuinely misses his touch, misses being with him, misses being so gloriously overwhelmed by him. She misses how easily he seizes her from this troubled reality and flings her into their own little universe, a place where only they exist, even if only for a few exquisite moments.

Besides. If pleasing him means he might consider giving Leia better accommodations…

_Men are fools, and men in rut are even bigger fools._

She leans forward, pretending to adjust a game piece and flashing a show of cleavage while she does it.

His brow darkens into a frown when he picks up on her unsubtle invitation. And the blunt force of his annoyance cannot be disguised behind his cool rejoinder when it comes, oozing such scorn her blood runs cold.

“I would not have you lower yourself to a whore’s status on account of my mother.”

She gasps aloud at the shock of his insult, instantly fuming. Briefly, she thanks the gods she is not holding their goblet, or he would find its contents tossed in his face.

A candle flares and sizzles in the candelabra on the mantle, then another. His regard flickers from her to the candles and his scowl deepens.

_A trick of the light. That’s all._

“Bastard.”

“I may be many things, but I assure you a bastard is not one of them,” he answers with such blistering arrogance she is rendered temporarily speechless. “As I was _going_ to say,” he growls into the ringing silence, “I might reconsider my mother's lodgings in exchange for information on my uncle’s whereabouts. But if you insist on playing the whore, by all means, I won’t stop you.”

She clenches her teeth to keep from calling him a knotheaded pig.

But. Perhaps insulting his honor will alleviate her own offense.

_A whore? I’ll call your bluff and you can choke on the winnings…_

She stands up and meets his glower with her own grim determination, the fire’s warmth haloing around her as she reaches back and loosens the ribbon at the waist of her gown.

_What’s this? Is she really going to…? Ha!_

“Well if your word is any good, then _by all means_ , let us strike a bargain and settle the matter here and now.” 

“My word is unassailable,” he warns dangerously, “but I seem to recall you declaring a certain, rather adamant distaste over the idea of whoring yourself for trinkets. I would not have you throw that in my face again.”

“Your mother’s comfort is hardly a trinket! And the status of our hospitality is hardly trivial.” She’s seething dark energy, and gods, it’s the most tempting thing. “Besides, she’ll never tell you where Luke is. She’d rather rot in your dungeons than give him up.”

“Then I suppose she’ll just have to rot. Unless you’re going to do something about it?”

His flippant rejoinder does exactly what he intends and her nostrils flare. _Gods, her temper is magnificent, even if her motives are as devious as ever._

He cocks his hips forward and relaxes into the cushions of his seat, issuing a blatant dare.

Compulsion flows as easily as breathing and he lifts a hand and crooks his finger.

_Come here, then._

In reply, she pulls the pins from her hair and shakes it loose to fall around her shoulders. His blood pressure skyrockets, but his amusement wavers.

She cannot possibly know how close he is to caving, or at least allowing her to believe he’ll cave.

She couldn’t guess he has every intention of allowing his Knights – in disguise of course – to help his mother escape so she might lead them straight to his uncle.

No, Rey _cannot_ know this, and yet her attempt to bend him to her will simultaneously entertains and infuriates him. Her maneuverings are so bloody transparent.

He’s spent many long minutes, hours even, pondering the questionable details of the education she received back on Jakku. He admits the vague bits she’s already revealed should give him some cause for alarm, though he's always reasoned so long as he is well aware of her machinations, he can be on the alert to quash them.

Perhaps a hard-learned lesson is in order.

_She’s actually trying to manipulate me._

_So be it._

“Since you seem so hell-bent on playing the whore, I suppose I have no choice but to allow it.” Each word holds the proper weight to make his point crystal clear. She blanches and he continues, ruthlessly furious, “Go on, then. Let’s see what whore’s tricks you intend to use on me this evening. Perhaps I'll be treated to more of Lady Bazine's very interesting recommendations? No? Perhaps if you give me a fine enough demonstration, I’ll even allow you a visit with my newest prisoner.”

“You’ll let me see her?” His heart turns to stone when he hears the naked eagerness in her voice and perceives the calculation in her eyes. “You’ll move your mother to more appropriate quarters and allow me to speak with her? If I...?”

_Gods, Rey, I never knew you could shred my heart in my chest with such cruel ease._

“Well, if you can’t even _say_ it, there’s no point continuing this discussion…” He drifts off significantly, furious with himself for falling into his own well-baited trap.

“I’ll require a private audience with Leia, then. If I’m to _whore_ it out of you,” she retorts, eyes flashing with defiance.

Bitch.

He grinds out between his teeth, “That will involve…some doing on your part. But I suppose if you perform your role well enough, a private audience can be arranged.”

“And what does _some doing_ entail?” she asks, too sharply, too quickly for his liking.

“Anything I fucking want.” The log in the fire emits a crackling pop, and Kylo isn’t sure if he should attribute it to a bit of pitch in the wood or his own mood, rapidly turning black with fury and seeping ominously into the atmosphere.

Quietly, he gauges her, but just when he thinks she might back down and perhaps apologize for being so cold-hearted, for her blatant scheming…for making him _want_ …

No, instead she presses on. “You’re…telling me if I…?”

“On my honor.”

She’s calling his bluff. Actually _calling_ it and with the bloodless precision of a hardened Sabacc player. The High Priest’s oft-repeated warnings crawl into his mind and lodge themselves there, undeniably accurate.

_Master Snoke was bloody well right. All this time. She’s just like all the rest of them._

This thought is so depressing he snaps, “I fail to see how this is going to work if you cannot even manage the simplest subservience.”

Immediately, she casts her eyes to the floor. A lovely pink warms her cheeks.

“I’m impressed,” he purrs, no longer bothering to disguise his ire. “And discussing terms prior to the act itself? Very astute. Perhaps your tutors deserve more acknowledgement than I’ve credited. Any other requests to put on the table before I teach you your first lesson in whoring?”

At this, her jaw clenches and he watches, fascinated despite himself by the slight flex of her cheek. Contemplation writes itself plainly over her face as she weighs and measures his proposition. Or was it hers?

For the briefest moment, he almost recognizes the _something_ flashing in her eyes.

Pain. Betrayal.

It’s dark and haunted and short-lived. A vapor. A ghost. A powerful empathy threatens to engulf him, but he brutally tamps it down when she shakes her head _no_.

_So. She only cares for my mother. After all this time. Damn._

“All right, then.”

Enough is enough with her games.

He widens his knees to make room for his increasing erection and to call her attention to the lewdly straining fabric pulled taut across the bulge of his crotch. Her eyes glimmer with awareness and his heart sinks. She's doing this on purpose. 

And he owns a moment of perfect clarity.

Perhaps, after a lifetime of it always lurking in the background of his consciousness, he finally and wholly grasps the harshest lesson of all. Though Snoke has quite literally cut it into his own skin time and again and his own parents carved it into his heart since before he can remember, it is Rey who finally manages to butcher the truth into his soul.

_I will only ever know death and darkness. None can ever love me._

I will only ever be the God of Death.

Nothing more.

He lifts his chin and surrenders to reality.

“You should offer yourself to me properly now. Like a good little whore.”

He pulls his dagger, twisting and twirling its point into the engraved arm of his chair, uncaring if he mars the lovely, intricate carvings.

Hesitantly, she slides the sleeves of her dress down her arms to reveal a whisper-thin chemise she knows is practically transparent. Her dress settles at the curve of her hips and she pushes it down until it pools at her feet.

“Ah. Matching stockings today. I confess I’m rather disappointed.”

He remains slouched in his seat, though he makes a thorough show of raking her up and down, lingering on her tautly peaked nipples growing hard in the room’s slight chill and on the exposed flesh between the tops of her stockings and the hem of her chemise.

“Very pretty. But you should come closer. Show me what I’m paying for. Let me see what I’m buying for such a steep price.”

Her face burns with humiliation, but she steps over her dress and around the now long-forgotten Dejarik board to stand before him.

Carefully, he coaxes her to spin and face away from him. His palm brushes over the dip of her waist, briefly cupping the rounded flesh of her derriere before stroking down the back of her thigh, then up the inside, stopping just before he reaches…

He emits the slightest hum, as if he’s inspecting a horse or a dog for breeding, not her, his own wife.

Something in the soft ruthlessness of his touch makes her afraid.

He gives her a light smack on the rump, causing her to yelp in surprise.

“Turn and face your master, little whore,” he commands, slumping back into his seat.

She turns, infuriated tears of shame burning her eyes. “You’ve made your point. You can stop saying _whore_.”

He smiles, a wolf-like baring of teeth to indicate apparent amusement. But his reply sends chills down her spine. “I’ve not yet _begun_ to make my point. You’re quite insolent for a whore. You should know most whores display a proper deference, at all times. Regardless of how _distasteful_ the whore might find the situation.”

She clamps her teeth together, unwilling to give him additional fuel for his insults.

“Kneel.” He yanks roughly on her arm and she lands on her knees before him. He stares down his nose, unfathomable, unreadable. “Well? Are you not sure what to do next? I presumed you would comprehend the fundamentals of how this all works, at the very least. I’m not in the mood for virginal airs tonight.”

_Virginal airs? Is that…something whores play at? Being virgins?_

Her cheeks, once pink, flame bright red.

“You may undress me,” he prompts, taking up his dagger again and lazily drilling the tip into the arm of his chair.

She reaches for his trousers, keeping half an eye on the dagger. She fumbles at the fastenings but flinches when he stabs the blade into the arm of the chair and clucks his tongue.

He pushes her hand away and tilts her chin. His eyes glint deadly obsidian, and she has not a clue as to what he's thinking. Another chill shivers through her.

“You must take your time, little one. I would not be unduly rushed to the finish when I wish to savor your charms at leisure.”

Her heart flutters wildly, and she shrinks away. “Ben. I don’t…This isn’t…”

“Isn’t what?” he snarls.

“I don’t want…”

“What? You don’t want to play this game anymore? Whyever not?” His lip curls back and she perceives she's hurt his feelings, which somehow only adds to the menacing danger boiling off him. “Do you not enjoy the feeling of being used? Of being treated like nothing but a dirty scavenger whore–”

Lightning-fast, she strikes him, hard enough to snap his head to the side with the force of it.

Undaunted, he grabs a fistful of her hair, jerking her close, his eyes rimmed in red as they bore into hers.

“What’s wrong, princess? Do you not enjoy being considered less than human?” he hisses. “Do you not thrill to be valued only for what you can do for others but never seen as…never seen for who you _really_ are?”

Tears stream down her face. Not from the open animosity, but because he’s so obviously suffering the exact same anguish she has secretly felt all her life. And she’s only just now seeing it as clearly as a reflection in the mirror.

“You’re right,” she whispers brokenly, and his hand unclenches from her hair, releasing her with near violence. She falls back onto her heels. She cannot abandon her commitment to the Resistance, but neither can she ignore his pain, particularly when it burns so apparently before her now. “I should not have done that, tried to trick you into giving me what I want. I’ll not do it again.”

He narrows his eyes, suspicious.

“But you cannot deny the very crime you accuse me of might not also be put on your own head.”

A breath of otherworldly malice pulses through the room so strongly the fire nearly flickers out.

_Did he do that?_

Before she can ask what just happened, he utters, “Explain.”

Rose’s earlier words come to mind all too easily, pouring out of her recklessly. “Since the moment you found me on Jakku, your only aim has been to use me as a…a brood mare to get an heir and become crowned Emperor. Perhaps we are both at fault.”

He huffs a heavy sigh, but he does not argue.

Tentatively, sensing he’s relinquishing some of his terrifying rage, she rests her hands lightly on his knees, hope springing into her chest.

He likes it, craves her touch almost painfully. She can feel it through their bond, though she suspects he’d rather die before admitting it.

 _I will not attempt this ever again, using sex to get what I want. He always figures it out and he hates it whenever I try,_ she realizes. _But perhaps there is a way I can help the Resistance and still salvage something for myself, too._

_I just need time._

And time can be bought, with Rose’s help to bring her birth control as she did today.

Yes, if they can buy time for the Resistance, Rey can buy time for herself, too. 

This realization floors her. Of course her husband wants to turn to the light, to do the right thing. He just needs to be coaxed, convinced it is possible. If he can just see there is another way to rule, not just his grandfather's way...

_I just need to hold off the Resistance in the meantime._

“I’m sorry I struck you. That was not well done of me,” she murmurs with all the sincerity in her heart. “And I’m sorry for trying to…do what I did.”

The corner of his mouth turns up, a bit ruefully, true, but it’s something. He lifts her under her arms and drags her into his lap so she straddles him. Now she is the one looking down and the irony is not lost on her.

His eyes soften to warm amber as she shuffles closer, and his scent shifts from menacing to fierce yearning.

He kisses her hand and cups it around his cheek, still warm from where she slapped him.

“Forgiven,” he mutters. “As for my treatment of you…I cannot very well take you back to Jakku, nor will I, but I swear I don’t just think of you as a…what did you call yourself? A brood mare?” He chuckles, and her heart skips a beat.

She nods in mock seriousness, and he grins up at her. “Gods, that’s _horrid_. But,” he grows serious again, “I assure you I don’t think of you that way…I haven’t…and I won’t again. We can try to…let the past die?” A brief, vulnerable shadow haunts the depths of his eyes, perhaps an old secret or something he can’t quite let go of, yet.

But he’s trying. It’s salvageable. _We just need some time._

And if anyone knows all about waiting, it’s Rey.

She pushes her hands into his thick, lovely hair, feeling lighter than she has for months, despite her recent betrayal and the heaviness of secrets still untold weighing on her heart.

"Yes."

“Well, all right then. We’ll let the past die.”

The words come easily but a horrible sinking dread fills him when he comprehends another mind-bending truth within the span of minutes. It hits while he stares into her beautiful hazel eyes and when it strikes, he tries very hard not to let the shock show on his face.

He’s a fool. The biggest fool in the galaxy.

He’s gone and done the stupidest thing a man can do, the one thing he never, ever should have done. And it’s too late now, far too late to be taken back since it happened ages ago, he reckons, although, like all fools, he has only just come around to discovering his monumental error.

Simply put, he’s somehow managed to fall in love with his wife. Which wouldn’t be so awful if it weren’t for the incontrovertible fact she does not, nor will she ever, return the sentiment.

He can never truly let the past die, not after what he’s done, the promises he's made.

But despite this, in this moment, he feels more hope than he has for a long time.

She may never love him, but she undoubtedly belongs to him, and it's enough for now.

And he believes she means it when she promises not to use him again.

Her sweet breath falls on his lips and she kisses him so eagerly, he shudders at the potency of his desire. Her hands plunge into his hair and tug pleasantly against his scalp, demanding he kiss her, devour her. He complies, hugging her close, until she’s plastered against him and gasping for breath.

He pushes under her chemise and grunts lustfully when he touches her soft, silky skin.

“Gods, you’re so soft, so lovely…” he murmurs, licking the side of her neck until she squirms and whimpers.

“…Ben, I missed you…missed this…” Her tongue flicks delicately over his scent gland and his eyes flutter closed when she sucks on it. Her fingernails dig into his arms and he groans again, louder, less restrained, and slams his mouth onto hers again, savoring the taste of them mingled together.

He would tell her he missed her too and say he loves her, which would be a terrible idea, but she’s tugging at his shirt and kissing him back so wantonly, and he’s close, far too close to losing control. After all the emotional buildup, not just from this evening but over the past month, he’s not sure he’ll last long.

She doesn’t seem to mind, already working at the fastenings of his trousers again, but clumsy in her haste.

He flings her hands away so he can undo his pants himself. She lifts up on her knees to give him room, and he trembles when his cock springs free.

“Are you quite sure you want to draw this out?” she pants.

“No,” he bites out, positive he will die if he has to wait another second. Her hands grope between them and she finds him hot and achingly hard and he nearly bellows like a madman when she touches the head of his arousal, already dripping wet.

It’s been far too long.

Roughly, he slides a finger between her legs and without prelude, maneuvers her onto him, impaling her in one hard thrust that makes her squeal. 

“Fuck!” he shouts. She’s so tight and slick and perfect, but she’s whimpering and shaking and... _Oh, shit._ He pauses, gasping, “Is this too much? Fuck, I didn’t even think…” He starts to pull out, thinking he’s hurt her.

But then she begs for more, so he obeys without question, jarring his hips up and spreading her thighs so he can go deeper, driving inside until he’s buried to the hilt. She quivers against him at the shock of it, and his hands shake as he grips her and forces her into a rough bounce and grind.

“…this okay? I’m not hurting you?” he rasps. She moans and buries her face in the crook of his neck and he feels wet tears on his skin.

_Oh, fuck, she’s crying, and I can’t stop…_

“Don’t stop!” she sobs, clutching at him so desperately the force of his passion hits like a landslide. 

_I can’t…never be able to stop_ … _in my blood like fucking spice...never get you out…I’ll never want to…_

He bends forward and laves the tip of her breast through the filmy material of her shift. _Fucking thing is in the way._ A low, rabid growl clambers from the back of his throat and he takes the top of her chemise in his hands, ripping it cleanly down the middle. He gives her another twist of his pelvis and greedily watches her breasts bounce with every lunge, then wraps an arm around her waist and holds her in place so he can swipe his tongue over the tight bud of a nipple.

_Fuck, yes. This is mine._

Her head falls back, and he feels her come, drenching him with slick - _mine, just for me, yes_ \- her body gripping and clinging to his as he pumps his hips until his own unstoppable release spurts forth in wave after wave of rapture.

_Mine. I fucking love her._

She falls against him, lightly damp with sweat, and he rests his hands gently at her waist, pressing his forehead to hers and waiting until they catch their breath. Then he lifts her without a word and carries her to bed, stripping away the rest of his clothes and climbing into her outstretched arms, wholeheartedly prepared to make her forget he can sometimes be a monster.

He loves her, dammit. And there's not a gods' damned thing he can do about it.

The time will come all too soon for his past to catch up to them both. He would not linger on it for now, even if the reckoning will sting all the more when it arrives.

**One Year Exactly From the First Equinox Ball –**

Their guests swarm through the palace, the ballroom packed with dignitaries and nobles and far too many self-important people.

The theme this year is Rey’s decision, of course, a masquerade.

Privately, Kylo dislikes all the masks and the fuss. He’s exhausted and rather wishes he could spend a quiet evening at the Dejarik table with his wife. He's taken to winning more often against her, though she still routs him far too frequently. 

But, instead of doing what he really wants, he has donned a heavily embroidered tailcoat and dancing shoes, anticipating most of the night will be wasted chatting idly with his guests and watching from afar as Rey charms everyone within arms’ reach. Despite his own reluctance, a celebratory atmosphere rules the day, and he can only attribute it to the Knotted Moon and the hundreds of excited masqueraders in residence, currently toasting his name and swilling the most expensive champagne to be found.

A tenuous peace has finally settled upon the galaxy, thanks in no small part to much political wrangling from both Kylo and Rey over the past months. But although martial law has been lifted, a vague tension hangs in the air, as if nobody really trusts that such peace can last for long. 

Yes, in general, life has been a pleasant flurry of setting the galaxy to rights, with Rey staunchly at his side, a true helpmate. Two months ago, they’d hosted a lovely party to celebrate their one-year wedding anniversary. Hux’s work with the Crimson Dawn to police the City has gone seamlessly well. Even Leia Organa has been surprisingly well-behaved, though Kylo avoids his mother at every opportunity and remains baffled she’s not yet taken advantage of a chance to escape and lead him to Luke Skywalker. He strongly suspects his mother is too wily to fall for such a ploy and knows he will eventually have to try a harsher tactic.

Coruscant has never been so prosperous, and Kylo feels his life is finally in order, but for the glaring exception of Snoke. The High Priest returned to Coruscant a month ago and has required Kylo’s attendance in Church every day since.

But Kylo smiles, thinking for not of Church or Snoke’s ever-increasing demands for him to produce an heir, but of Rey’s soft lovemaking and hopeful promises that when the time comes, she will indeed bear him a child.

Whenever he laments the fact she has not yet conceived, she soothes him so sweetly it eases the awful burden in his heart.

 _It’s the will of the gods. They have their reasons, and we must trust it is for the greater good_ , she tells him. Her encouragement mollifies his ever-increasing panic that if he cannot get her pregnant again and soon – not for lack of trying – Snoke will do as he’s been threatening and annul their marriage, Rey’s golden blood be damned.

But there's still time. And with her on the brink of another heat, surely this time it will happen. Perhaps he needs to finally come clean. Perhaps she's right about the will of the gods, only they are punishing him for his lies, for violating the natural order of life and death with blood magic.

Maybe they are simply waiting for him to make things right with Rey. 

He’s maybe even considering he might have been wrong all those months ago, when he realized he loved her and she could never love him back. He dwells incessantly on how her eyes brighten whenever he enters the room, how her scent always envelops him with welcome, how freely she submits herself to him whenever they make love…

If he could only be assured she could forgive him, he would perhaps explain the heinous actions he took a year ago, the day after the last Equinox Ball.

Kylo slows his pace, paying attention to his location as he makes his way through the tunnels below the palace. He carries the rubies again, having had them delivered personally into his hand just minutes before. This route is shorter and better guarded, and he knows he’s running late. Rey will not mind if he enters her rooms from the servant’s panel, though she never uses the rooms these days, except to dress for formal occasions.

“Oh!” The servant’s squeak of surprise jars him into the present as he reaches the entry panel just as Beebee does.

The diminutive girl was brought to the palace by an old con-artist named Teedo weeks after Hux helped him clear the Scrum. Teedo claimed he had no means to support the child any longer, heavily implying he’d previously undertaken responsibility for the girl’s well-being and had not just picked her up randomly somewhere in an attempt to scam a few coins out of the palace. Before Kylo could have the scum run off at the end of a pike, however, Rey had taken an especial liking to the little ginger-haired maid and convinced Kylo to adopt her into the household as a gesture of goodwill to the residents of the Scrum.

He’d conceded to his wife’s pretty pleas, knowing there would be no harm done by allowing Beebee to stay at the palace and positive there would be hell to pay – particularly in the form of a very cold bed – if he refused.

Besides, Beebee is incapable of subterfuge or conspiracy. She has been touched by the gods, designated at birth to remain forever untainted by darker human passions, to live in eternal childhood, regardless of her age. To harm one such as her is a terrible crime and a curse that follows even into the afterlife, and even the most hardened criminals will not risk it.

Kylo tries to make himself appear as non-threatening as possible, knowing the girl is easily intimidated by Alphas. He is not terribly superstitious, but Rey loves her, and he will not risk offending his wife by frightening the maid.

“What’s that you have there, Beebee?” he asks, spying a tiny cup on a tray, the only thing the girl carries.

“Her ladyship’s tonic, of course,” Beebee sings promptly, her voice high and lilting. It never fails to send a shiver of unease through him. The girl may be innocent, but she can be eerily omniscient at times.

“Tonic? What tonic?” His attention perks up. Though Rey’s poisoning has long since been resolved, every hair at the back of his neck stands on end.

_Why in the name of Zeus’s bloody knot does Rey need a tonic?_

“It’s her ladyship’s tonic,” Beebee repeats, cocking her head to the side, birdlike. “You are dressed for dancing, milord, not questions.” The girl giggles at her own joke, and Kylo tries to keep a scowl from darkening his expression.

“Hmmmm, I suppose you are right,” he muses, “but for what reason might her ladyship require a tonic, Beebee?”

“’Tis for her ladyship’s digestion, milord.”

Ah. Relief is followed by mild alarm. Rey _never_ has problems with her digestion or otherwise. Despite her dainty appearance, she hasn’t been ill since her poisoning, and that was an extenuating circumstance. Kylo’s brow furrows with concern.

“Beebee, has her ladyship fallen ill?”

“Oh, no! Her ladyship is just fine, just fine,” Beebee chirps.

He sighs. Well, if she needs a digestive tonic, she obviously is not fine, but he won’t argue.

But then Beebee speaks again and he goes utterly cold inside.

“Her ladyship just needs her tonic every month or she will be very sad indeed.”

“I’m sorry, Beebee. I fear I misheard you.”

“Oh! Do not be afraid!”

“What do mean every month?”

A shadow crosses the girl’s pale, freckled face and she shakes her head, suddenly anxious. “No one must know, she said.”

It takes all of his will not to frighten the child, and he manages to keep his voice even and light. “Of course not, Beebee. Though I think her ladyship meant no one besides you and I, perhaps?”

“Oh!” Her face falls back into simple relief. “That makes sense.”

“You said her ladyship requires this tonic… _every_ month?”

“Yes, milord.”

“Since when, Beebee?”

“Since before I was first brought to the palace, of course.”

_…nearly a year? Rey’s been drinking a tonic every month since..?_

“Why?”

“She says it's for the greater good, milord.”

He stares into Beebee’s guileless eyes and the answer hits him like a blaster bolt.

_Greater good. Oh, gods._

_That is no digestive tonic,_ he realizes, staring in shock at the innocuous little cup and the murky liquid inside. _Gods. Could she be that devious?_

He tucks his grandmother’s rubies under an arm and plucks the cup from Beebee’s tray.

“I’ll deliver this to her personally, Beebee. Run along, now. You ought not be out and about so close to the Knot of the Moon.”

“Yes, milord. Remember not to tell anyone.”

If his smile is a touch carnivorous, it thankfully flies straight over the girl’s head.

“It shall remain our little secret, Beebee. I swear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, we are getting all kinds of twisty turns with the timeline, and I cannot tell you how much fun I am having as we drill deeper into the heart of this story…
> 
> Some of you might be asking, “What? Wait! Where did almost a whole year go? Did Amy screw up? Is she MAD?” The answer is unequivocally NO. Well. Maybe a tinge mad. I’m on day 20 of quarantine, so madness is a definite possibility. Yes. Probably very mad.
> 
> Anyhow. We _are_ going to get a handful of flashbacks to fill in some blanks over the next chapter or two, but we need to move this story along, or it is simply never going to end.
> 
> XOXO...
> 
> P.S. Regarding the comment situation. I feel like I need to explain. I currently have 327 un-replied-to comments in my inbox. Do I read them all? Yes. Do I love them all? Yes. Will I ever reply to them all? YES!!! Just bear with me, and remember I love you!


	27. Dance of Truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost split this into two chapters because this one is a bit long and I really wanted to give it some time to sink in...but I realize that would have been too cruel a series of cliffhangers, even for me. 
> 
> TW Heads’ up: There is no incest in this fic, nor will there be, but a Leia/Luke relationship is vaguely hinted at here and maybe again in future chapters. 
> 
> Kinda like in TRoS, but much more subtle. I’ll leave it to your imaginations to take it as far as you want. And yes, I’m feeling salty about it.

# Chapter Twenty-Seven – Dance of Truths

Rey closes her eyes, tilting obediently at her maid’s soft instruction, and Phasma bends close to add the final touches. The paint is applied directly to her face in the manner of an old masque to leave both hands free for dancing.

In typical masquerade fashion, everyone dresses in a similar style, so Rey wears a loosely cut, billowy gown that closely resembles the bedgown she wore when she first arrived in Coruscant fourteen months ago. Fastened around her bare shoulders is a hooded, bloodred cloak, which can be swept back to show off her jewels or pulled low over her head if she wishes to hide her face, not that she won’t be immediately recognized by her scent, of course. Still, the illusion of possibility adds a sense of excitement – mystery, even – to her already riotous emotions.

Her hair has been left long and loosely flowing under a wreath of spiky-petaled gold flowers selected from the orangery just that morning for the very reason they exactly match her gown. Her only distinction in costume will be Padmé Amidala’s rubies, which her husband is presently retrieving.

Every light sweep of Phasma’s brush over her skin tickles almost unbearably, a result of the over-sensitization brought on by the Knotted Moon and Rey’s impending heat. Thankfully, Phasma seems to realize this and promises, “Almost finished, just a bit more, my lady.”

Rey tries not to grumble, knowing Phasma would not approve of such unrefined comportment.

But, she’s growing restless and increasingly nervous. Beebee has yet to bring her monthly potion, and the window of time between when it might be discreetly swallowed and when Kylo appears to escort her to the ball is rapidly closing. And with the Knotted Moon waxing full, if this heat is anything like the previous ones, once Kylo is nearby, nothing short of galactic disaster will tear him from her side.

_If Beebee doesn’t arrive in the next few minutes, I fear this heat will result in another pregnancy. And I’m not doing what I did last time. Hux can take himself to the Scrum and beyond and never return, I don’t care. Never again._

Besides. She truly believes Kylo can be brought to reason. And if he might be able to compromise, perhaps Leia and Luke can back down, as well.

_He just needs a bit more time…perhaps once the Hosnia treaty is signed…and once I know I can tell him the truth. Or at least most of it._

Kylo has already shown himself to be level-headed and fair if not stern and, yes, sometimes a touch brutal. But his temperament has dramatically improved over the course of the last year or so, only growing dark again when Snoke returned a month ago and began to make his typical incessant demands upon Kylo’s time.

As always, any thought of the High Priest sends uneasy tingles down her spine.

However, despite her husband’s resurgence into melancholy silences and rather sullen withdrawals reminiscent of the old days before last year’s ball, he has shown he can be reasoned with…and in private he demonstrates a sweet, devoted side that at once thrills her even as it highlights the wrongness of her actions.

_I can’t lie to him like this anymore. It’s already going to be so difficult to confess what I can…and if I can’t get him to change his mind…convince him the Old Laws aren’t necessary._

The galaxy prospers without the Lottery and the Old Laws, and while the Resistance is steadily rebuilding itself in the meantime, Rey hopes both sides might find common ground, if not balance. And it is here, at this crossroads, where she clings to her most fervent optimism, though secretly; perhaps, in time, her husband can find a way to bend, to find a truce with those systems that do not want to be ruled by a monarch.

Rey knows much if not most of the galaxy relies upon the current monarchial structure of government and may never be ready for self-rule. So, he can still have his dynasty, and it will be one of everlasting peace.

_And I can give him as many children as he wants…and maybe someday have a family of my own, a real one._

She dares not even think of what it might mean, so fragile is her hope. But it’s there, a tiny sliver of light in the darkness. For now, though, this furtive, precious dream is not something she will even voice aloud, not when her tutors and Leia have done all they could to pound the very opposite into her head.

_Family is not for the likes of you. Wanting such things will only bring unimaginable heartbreak. Your role is singularly special, and no one else can do what you can do – you are too valuable to be executed if caught out and you will be too politically important to be disregarded after things come to their proper conclusion._

_You are unmatched, and you must always be alone._

_Whenever the longing for family strikes you, remember who your real family is._

_It can only ever be the Resistance._

Her eyes are closed, but Rey hears the welcome shush of the servant’s panel slide open and exhales in relief.

_Beebee with my tonic, thank the gods._

Eyes still shut against Phasma’s whisper-soft cosmetics brush, Rey mutters, “Beebee, you may bring my tonic and set it here on the vanity.”

“Tonic?” Phasma murmurs around another brush held between her teeth, though she doesn’t stop applying her paint with meticulous diligence. “Are you quite well my lady?”

Rey opens her mouth to answer when his scent filters to her nose. Phasma must also sense his presence, for she stops immediately and bows her head as Rey’s eyelashes flutter open.

Kylo moves into the room like a wraith, eyes burning with black fire.

“Yes, my dear. I had the very same concern for your welfare when I met Beebee in the corridor just now. When she informed me you required a _digestive tonic_.”

_He knows. Oh, gods, he knows._

Beside her, Phasma stiffens at the latent hostility rolling off of him, and Rey’s heart trembles. Anyone can see he has gone quiet and dark as he only does when he’s deeply infuriated.

Smoothly, he moves forward and sets a familiar little cup on the vanity, square in front of her. The murky liquid ripples slightly, an almost-accusation, and her skin grows ice-cold behind the layers of shimmering masquerade paint.

_No. No, it can’t be now. No._

“You are excused, Phasma,” Kylo utters quietly.

In the briefest exchange, Phasma’s eyes meet Rey’s in the mirror – _Will you be all right? Should I really leave?_ At that moment, Rey loves her for it, for the woman’s evident willingness to disobey a direct order, even from Kylo, if it means abandoning Rey to possible harm.

There is no mistaking his ire, nor the direction of it. Phasma has no idea – no one does – what is in the little cup on her vanity nor the significance of the cup’s contents.

_Go. Go before it is too late._

She adds to Kylo’s command with the barest nod, and Phasma sweeps out, moving as stealthily as Kylo had done.

_As for me. The time has come, and I am not ready. And I was a fool to think I ever would be._

If she had another month, maybe two…

Rey swallows and her gaze moves to meet Kylo’s, now standing in Phasma’s place just behind her.

He is already dressed for the ball, wearing a lovely black brocade trimmed liberally with gold braid and his form-fitting pantaloons, and pristine stockings, and dancing shoes. His hair has grown long these past months and is tied back with a bit of ribbon that matches her gown, emphasizing the beautiful austerity of his bone structure and drawing attention to his startlingly high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, heavy brow, and harshly angled jaw.

She can smell the shaving soap he used, her favorite, scented of sandalwood and pomegranate, and it mingles enticingly with his own masculine scent, grown muskier with the oncoming Knotted Moon to complement her approaching heat.

But none of these things matter now, not his tall, handsome frame garbed exquisitely in his masquerade costume, nor the polished lockbox tucked conspicuously under his arm, holding a planet’s ransom of jewels, nor the fact she herself is gowned and painted for an evening of celebration.

_Calm. You must find your center of calm. The storm is upon you now._

He waits for the panel to slide fully closed behind Phasma before he tosses the jeweler’s box onto the foot of her bed as if it is a casual bit of rubbish. He returns his stare to the potion on her vanity. 

“Tell me that isn’t what I think it is.”

A frigid wave of compulsion crashes into her, and she resists it, but poorly. This scenario is beyond the very worst of her expectations. But she _has_ trained for this if only she braces herself.

“I can’t.” She takes a controlled breath and lifts her chin. “I don’t know what you think _it_ is.”

_I don’t know how much you know._

He exhales, jaw clenching tightly.

“Don’t.” The word is simple and abrupt, but it conveys so much.

_Don’t lie._

_Don’t go this way._

“I…” she starts and breaks off.

“How long?”

“...a while.”

“Who? How?” _Who has been helping you? How were they helping you?_

Her mind takes over with cold, cool logic, as it has been trained to do, making the opening moves to the only game she was ever destined to play, here, now, at this very moment in time, in this opulent bedchamber once belonging to a queen and an empress and legions of sovereigns before her.

Here in a palace so ancient, the magic imbued into the structure itself is beyond explicable, having come and gone from existence before known history.

Here, now. Against the one person in the galaxy she would never choose to hurt and to whom she might have fully and always belonged, in another lifetime, perhaps. If only fate could have granted her a bit more time and dealt a more favorable hand.

Her opponent waits and watches, and she knows him. Maybe not all of him. But enough. He is a prince of a royal bloodline that goes back generations, even if his own father was of very common birth.

Someday he will be an emperor. He is a hard, stern leader. A formidable enemy.

But.

He can be a soft, tender lover. He loves romantic poetry and winning at Dejarik and telling her about the sea. He still leaves little gifts on her pillow more often than not, to brighten her day. He has the most charming smile, and though it is rarely seen lately it melts her heart whenever it appears. 

He is strong and shrewdly intelligent, owning a wicked sense of humor that he often employs just to scandalize her or just to tease. He is possessive and cruel and in equal turns kind and generous. And he can be so horribly vulnerable at times it shakes her, whereas at other times he is rough-edged and sarcastic to the point of insolence.

He is her mate. Her _match_.

But this was never meant to be. And now reality is upon her.

_I was always ever meant to be alone._

_I am unmatched._

_There is no emotion, there is peace._

She steels herself for the _Dance of Truths_ , a most difficult maneuver to execute and nearly impossible to achieve if one’s adversary suspects foul play. It is typically a last resort, a desperate gambit made under only the direst of circumstances, and even then only to prolong the inevitable.

Like a surgeon amputating a gangrenous limb to save the rest of the body, she silently begins to make rapid-fire, game-changing decisions, analyzing possibilities and cutting away anything that won’t win.

Making choices that will alter the destinies of billions.

Hux must be protected. As distasteful as it is, it’s a brutal reality. Hux is now in the best position to assure the minimum amount of damage going forward, at least for the common people and for those less powerful systems that will be subjected to the greater inequities and horrors of the Lottery.

As the Phoenix, he will continue his efforts to keep the Lottery from being reinstated. Though he has never revealed what motivates him, he has always adamantly declared it, and Rey knows his will is absolute. He will stop it or die trying, and that is enough. It must be.

_Keep the Phoenix hidden and in play and save billions. Even if he is a snake, we serve a common goal._

Her mind quickly spins to Rose, and here she wavers. Rose _must_ be protected.

If implicated in this conspiracy, Kylo will not hesitate to destroy her and likely her entire home system in his rage. Rose is yet unmated and can be shielded behind her relative innocence; she knows what is at stake if she comes forward at this stage. She has been trained well and will still be of some use in the coming fight _._

_Rose can yet accomplish much. You must do what you can, but let her go._

It hurts. But there's more and she must hurry.

Next is Beebee. Simply put, Beebee is special. She cannot be caught up in this any more than she already is.

Rey considers her not for any strategic reason, but for a moral one. Rey has already pared her morality down to the bone. She must have some scrap left over, some remnant to make it possible to live with herself if and when this ends.

_If anything happens to that girl, it will fall upon my head, just as surely as if I did it by my own hand._

From what Kylo just revealed, he already knows Beebee is involved, but like Rose, Beebee can hide behind a shield of naïveté. He also knows Beebee only ever does as she is told. She doesn’t have the capacity to comprehend the concept of birth control, let alone the political significance of why someone might actively try to prevent a royal baby from arriving…and Beebee needs time.

_…if anyone ever catches you bringing this to me, Beebee, even if it is his lordship himself, you must do something for me…it’s terribly important…but you must do it…the very minute you are able to, do you understand?_

Beebee is the piece she grew too attached to, and Rey cannot find it in herself to follow San Tekka’s oft-repeated admonitions and let her go.

“Beebee delivered it every month. After she came to the palace. She didn't know what it was.”

He nods. “She told me as much, just now in the corridor. She said you’ve been taking this since _before_ she arrived.”

The raw hurt radiating from him is too much to bear, but he is too calm, to quiet. He should be raving and throwing things. He should be doing anything but giving her this deadly soft interrogation, somehow made even more horrible by the fact she must face her own reflection to meet his eyes. His self-composure only adds to Rey’s escalating terror.

He cocks his head, eyes glinting into hers in the vanity mirror. “Who helped you to get it? Rose?”

“Rose is yet unmated. She does not know of such things.” Rey shakes her head _no_ – just enough to put the emphasis of truth to the lie – and she moves her first major piece to the slaughter.

“It was Lady Bazine,” she mutters, making a well-calculated guess. “The woman knows of ways to prevent a man’s seed from finding root.”

“Yet she never brought it to my attention as she should have done. I’m to believe instead she committed treason to help you? Why?” His logic is flawless, damn him, as she knew it would be.

Another lie comes easily mixed with truth. “I overheard her. She made some remarks that greatly displeased me, and I knew would also displease you. Just as insulting as Canady’s ever were. And so I held it over her head.” That last is an outright lie, but a good gamble and solidly defensible. Bazine won’t be able to argue against it, not if she’s brought to admit the first bit. 

“What remarks?” His voice is silky, slippery, seeking to dip into the nooks and crannies of her story and pick it apart from the inside out.

A touch of anger rolls forth as she revisits that nightmare evening, one year ago exactly, and she allows it, knowing it lends credence to her words. “She expressed a most adamant desire to share your bed. And she said I had no place at court and you only married me because…” He lifts a brow, indicating she should continue, no matter how humiliating and vulgar. “…because you only wished to breed _pups_ on me.”

“I suppose that point is rendered moot, in light of your behavior and hers,” he observes coldly.

He leans close, inspecting the line of her exposed collarbone and the hint of décolletage above the modestly cut neckline of her peasant’s gown. Slowly, he draws a finger across the back of her shoulders to sweep her hair aside, draping it over one shoulder so he might stare at the marks on the back of her neck for an interminably long while.

His next question makes her flinch so brutally does his pain sizzle across their bond.

“Why?” _Why did you do it? Why did you not tell me? Why did you break my heart?_

She takes a deep breath. _He can never know._

“I had a terrible fear of falling pregnant again after my poisoning.”

The foundation of this justification is built on the very bedrock of her deepest betrayal.

_There was no poison. It was my fault. I had no choice._

His eyes glitter like a demon’s and the air grows chill, freezing her blood in her veins.

“That’s…a _lie_ ,” he breathes, caressing the accusation on his tongue as softly as he strokes her mating gland with a curved finger.

He cups a large, lethal hand loosely around her throat.

“I am going to ask you a question. And you _will_ satisfy me with an answer, Omega. Or you will pay a very steep price.” His hand tightens just enough to warn her, and she swallows, acutely conscious of his cruel grip and how easily he might crush her windpipe. “Was my mother involved in this?”

The steel in his voice permits no leeway. None. She cannot lie so boldly again, or everything else will splinter apart.

_There is always a choice._

Lightning fast, she decides where to make her cut and hopes to the gods it is enough.

**About Eleven Months Ago –**

“Rey you look pale, my dear. Could the marvelous news be true and you’re already carrying my grandchild? I must say the idea is much more preferable than a niece or nephew to an old woman such as myself.”

“Mother. Shouldn’t you be weaving a poisoned web in some dark corner of your new quarters? I don’t seem to recall issuing an invitation to tea.”

“Ben? I invited her. I thought it would be all right.” Rey widens her eyes a fraction, but the gesture is significant enough.

After the previous evening’s delightful turn and their very enthusiastic physical reunion, he _had_ promised Rey a visit with Leia Organa. But he’d assumed his mother would need at least a day to settle into her new rooms before rousing herself for a campaign of politicking and scheming.

Kylo has no doubt in his mind his mother has arrived in Coruscant prepared for some form of battle, no matter how feeble she might appear. As if to prove his point, her opening sortie is elegantly done, if not predictable.

“Well, I certainly did receive an invitation from you, my son, though yours was couched in terms of a threat more than a polite request for an audience. Something along the lines of if I did not accommodate your bounty hunter with absolute cooperation you would, - how did you put it? Oh, yes! - not hesitate to start blasting planets out of the sky! Such deplorable manners.”

“Surely you recognize an allegory when you hear one, Mother?” he snarls.

Leia lifts a brow. “Hmph. I must have missed it in my rush to meet your demands. I never would have believed you would idly threaten to murder billions of people so you could indulge in a temper tantrum. Your treatment of me certainly leaves much to be desired. Including assigning me to such inferior rooms. Am I not of royal blood? Should I not be granted apartments in the royal family’s wing, in accordance with my status?”

“If your new accommodations are unsatisfactory, Mother, I can always have you returned to your previous ones,” he threatens, unmoved, although Leia looks much older than she did when they last met.

_She won’t last another five minutes in a dungeon cell._

He turns his fulminating glare from his mother to the no less than eight Omicrons surrounding her, highlighting the ridiculous overkill of the situation. Annoyance spikes into him. How the hell is she supposed to be enticed to escape with so many guards?

Further irritation fills him when he realizes it’s his own fault for tripling security just last evening.

_I’ll need to loosen security, but not make it obvious…_

Kylo glares unrepentantly at his mother for a full minute before Rey catches his attention, standing and moving to Leia's side to guide the older woman to sit opposite them.

“Rey, child, you look pale. You may kiss my cheek. I’ve missed you…”

Rey moves obediently to press her lips to Leia’s soft, powder-scented cheek, and Kylo rolls his eyes.

“Won’t you join us for a cup of tea? We were just having some,” Kylo snaps belatedly. Undiluted agitation churns off of him without restraint. He pops an entire tea sandwich into his mouth and chews with exaggerated gusto to make his point.

_You have no power here, Mother._

“Unfortunately, I am not pregnant, ma’am.” Rey retakes her seat beside him and attempts to answer Leia’s question in an obvious bid to move the conversation into less tumultuous waters. But it does not have the intended effect, at least not for Kylo, since he is still furious over her poisoning and actively if not discreetly seeking his wife’s attempted assassin.

Leia hums and runs a beady eye over Rey’s slim figure and Kylo’s blood boils when she comments mildly, “I have no doubt you had a hand in removing me from my son’s horrid idea of lodgings, and I thank you for it.”

Mentally, he prepares himself for a long, infuriating hour or two, dodging his mother’s barbs and doing his best not to lose his temper. It will not serve him to reveal his real intentions – or how desperately he wants a hint at his uncle’s whereabouts – at least not for now. And to remind his mother to stop calling him _Ben_ will only highlight an opportunity for her to force an ultimatum out of him. 

_And she'll bloody well do as she wishes, anyhow._

By silent agreement, Rey pours tea in the very antithesis of a coldly refined courtier. Unlike anyone raised at court, her motions are unpracticed and therefore appealingly charming, at least to Kylo’s eye.

It’s one of the things he loves most about her, gods help him.

“Rey, what is your favorite discovery from my mother’s library?”

“Oooh!” Rey jumps eagerly on the neutral topic and Kylo’s blood pressure eases a touch. “Just last week I found a lovely collection of John Donne’s completed works. And it looks like someone made rather extensive notations in the margins, which are quite interesting to read.”

“That was probably my mother’s doing – I’ve heard tell she loved to mark her books, hoping to leave behind a legacy of her cherished Utopian ideals, for all the good it did her in the end.”

Kylo sips his tea and settles grumpily into the settee he shares with Rey. His mother’s presence in his parlor is strangely disconcerting, particularly because he expected their reunion to occur with _her_ behind the bars of a dungeon cell.

He has not seen her in person for a very, very long time. Well over a decade, though he knows she had spies reporting on him, including his own father before he put a stop to it.

“…and she had a love for practical literature as well, not like Ben here. Ben always had his head in the clouds for as long as I can remember.”

“How can you possibly remember anything of my childhood?” he interrupts. “In the brief intervals between your frequent absences, you mean? Or during the years you pawned me off on my uncle right before he tried to murder me in my sleep?”

Rey gasps. Clearly this is the first she's heard of the incident. 

"Really, Ben. You have such a penchant for dramatics." Leia shifts in her seat, proceeding to ignore him and continues to Rey as if he never spoke, “Ahhh. Donne, you said? That’s not very romantic of you my dear, but you always did have a more philosophical approach to literature, did you not?” Leia turns to Kylo and catches him glowering. He tries to fix a neutral expression on his face, but it doesn’t last at all when she prods, “Ben, what was your favorite? Burns? Rumi? I can never recall.”

“Baudelaire,” he admits sourly. _And Tennyson and Dickinson, too, not that you ever gave half a knotted damn._

“Ugh. All that ancient Earth pap. You ought to have spent more time studying the Jedi texts and learning something useful. Still, I would not say no to the opportunity to tour my mother’s old rooms.” Leia glances around. “I assume these are the apartments once belonging to my father?”

“No need to pretend ignorance, Mother. I already know you’ve sent your spies and you know your way around this place,” he jibes, “Or are those the useful bits to which you referred that the Jedi texts might have informed me upon? How to spy?” Rey stiffens, but he pushes on, uncaring if it upsets either one of them. “How to commit treason?”

Undaunted, Leia merely takes another sip of tea. Instead of riling to his accusations, she gives Rey a look and sniffs, “Well, if the gossip I’ve heard about your court is anything, not to mention the _scandalous_ painting I saw on the way in here…perhaps you might have learned a bit of decorum if nothing else.”

Beside him, Rey turns scarlet and sets her teacup and saucer on the table.

“Gossip? That’s an amusing term for the reports you had brought to you, Mother, though appropriate, I suppose, considering your spies' ultimate incompetence. Father's included. A pity _he_ was so willing to die over trifling _gossip…”_

Finally, something dark and serious sparks in her eyes, though it disappears in a flash. 

_Still a pressure point, after all this time, Mother? And here I thought you were beyond having a heart for anyone but my uncle._

“Well. I suppose you’ll find some are willing to do just about anything if it lies on the morally correct path. Your father knew that. Before he was so callously butchered like a dog by his own flesh and blood.”

 _Ah. There it is._ Kylo grits his teeth.

“And since we’re on the topic of your abominable behavior, if you continue to hold me hostage I would know for how long and for what purpose you intend to keep me here.”

“I don’t believe I owe you an explanation for my motives. You are here because I will it, and you shall remain here for as long as I require. You may thank my wife I have not yet separated your head from your neck and saved myself what I’m sure will be a very great deal of nuisance.” Unable to help himself, he slams his own cup and saucer onto the table so violently he chips it.

Abruptly, he stands and scowls down at Rey, who gapes at him, wide-eyed. He huffs an exasperated sigh. “Forgive my manners, darling. I’m sure it is merely the present company upsetting my digestion. I’ll leave you to your private audience.”

He pulls her limp hand to his lips for a hastily apologetic kiss and strides from the room, indicating for the Omicrons to follow.

Leaving sentries in the room is pointless. His mother cannot escape the enclosed chambers without him knowing about it, and he might as well begin working on the appearance of relaxing his guard now if nothing else.

Besides, perhaps the illusion of lowered security will lure his mother into speaking freely and letting something slip to Rey.

_Rey will tell me everything later. And Mother’s plotting never ceases. Her timing is too en pointe. She’s up to something, I can smell it._

There is no mistaking the fact. Whatever Leia is planning does not bode well for him or his own plans.

Rey freshens their tea and takes another sandwich from the plate, astounded Kylo did not leave even a single Omicron to guard them.

“I’m not sure how long he aims to leave us alone. Where’s he focused at the moment?”

“He’s mentioned Hosnia,” Rey replies automatically.

“Hosnia will become the base of the New Republic’s military operations, if only I can convince our allies to stop dragging their feet.”

“Base? But the Hosnian system is agrarian! Not military.”

“And they control half the galaxy’s food supply, if not via direct production then by the surrounding trade routes.”

Rey digests this bit of logic. Controlling Hosnia will subsequently grant power over much of the galaxy, although only a true despot would actually use that power to threaten to starve half the people in the known worlds.

But Leia has moved on.

“I can’t say I’m not grateful for your attempts to communicate with me these past few months, but you must never put your position in jeopardy for me again. I have my own safety assurances in place, and I don’t need to worry about a misguided warning from you turning into a full rout. Use someone else next time, if you must.”

Rey looks down at her cup, shamefaced. Her attempts to alert the Resistance to Leia's capture back on Kylo’s ship and again in the tunnels, after learning she was pregnant, nearly resulted in discovery. Leia is right.

“Remember what I said about lying. If and when the time comes, you should admit what you can and stick to the truth as best you are able. I can handle myself, and I can’t be caught up in some wild web of nonsensical lies. It’s not a matter of _if_ so much as _when_ …so you must be prepared and you must be ruthless, even if it means risking me. I’m sure San Tekka would have agreed.”

He would have. It was San Tekka himself who taught her the art of ruthlessness, to use an enemy’s weakness – whether it be hunger, distress, or perhaps a deep-rooted fear of abandonment, even the common human need for love – and to twist those things into weapons.

Rey drinks her tea, feeling guilty over the loss of San Tekka. She says as much to Leia.

Across from her, Leia bristles and chides, “You argued to have him imprisoned instead of executed. A martyr’s death would have better served the Resistance. We need something tremendous, shocking even, to catalyze our allies into action.” 

“I know,” Rey whispers. “But I just couldn’t…”

“Compassion only leads to failure, Rey. I need you to learn that.” Leia’s voice cools, and she picks up a new thread. “And then you got yourself pregnant and we almost lost you, as well.”

“That wasn’t _entirely_ my doing!” Rey snaps, suddenly annoyed. “I know it was foolish, but I…” She cuts her explanation short. There’s no use trying to explain. Even Hux told her Leia would not hear excuses for her failures. She straightens her posture. “I’m sorry. I’ve made arrangements so it doesn’t happen again. But, I did almost die. Are we certain the Phoenix didn’t try to do me in?”

Leia shrugs and takes a sip of tea. “I don’t think so. I’m guessing the abortifacient he gave you was merely poorly prepared. He assures me he’s rectified the situation to his satisfaction, and he has other worries, besides.”

Stubbornly, Rey insists, “Hux can’t be easily ruled. I don’t trust him.”

“Your only job is to trust me. Nobody else. Let me worry about Hux.”

“And if he really is trying to kill me?”

Leia cocks her head in a near-perfect replica of Hux’s earlier dubious assurance. “My dear, if he wanted you dead...”

“I know. I’d be dead.”

“He will need you to feed information to my son and misdirect him, so when the Resistance is able to move we can take him by surprise.” An overwhelming reluctance settles across her shoulders. Leia seems to sense it and softens. “My son seems quite besotted with you. Well done.”

Despite this rare morsel of praise, Rey feels as if she’s failed utterly, especially because it is solely her fault San Tekka was brought here in the first place.

“Do you have any idea who killed San Tekka? Or why?”

Leia smiles, the barest flash of canines. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t divulge every detail of my thoughts to the one person quite literally sleeping with the enemy.”

“And thank the gods I am!” Rey retorts, temper finally rising. “If not for me, you would not be here in these much-improved circumstances, I assure you.”

“Really?” Leia appears genuinely surprised. She narrows her eyes, dark and soulful and so frighteningly like her son’s. “Are you _most_ certain it was _you_ who convinced him? He does not have ulterior motives?”

Rey cannot answer, and Leia prods at a fear she didn’t even realize was there.

“You think because I am in Coruscant, I am a prisoner? Oh, Rey. You are more a prisoner here than I will ever be.” 

* * *

“So. My mother was arrested and brought here and convinced you to take measures to prevent becoming pregnant…to prolong the day when I would be crowned as Emperor.”

Rey nods.

“And you took it upon yourself to go to Lady Bazine - a likely candidate to know of such things, given her vast promiscuity, and a person who could be blackmailed into helping - and secure yourself a means of birth control, as my mother advised, without saying anything to me?”

She nods again, quickly meeting his penetrating stare before dropping her gaze to her lap.

“And you never even hinted to me, not once mentioned it…because you were afraid I would have you all put to death for even considering such heresy?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

“But you went ahead and followed my mother’s recommendation, despite the risk?”

_And then some._

She cannot answer, unable to speak from the lump of horrid betrayal rising at the back of her throat. She’s only cracked the surface of her sins and he’s already fuming.

“It never once crossed your mind as to _why_ my mother would ask you to do such a thing? Why she might wish to delay my coronation? Or how utterly thoughtless it might be to put yourself and Lady Bazine and Beebee at such dreadful risk for helping you to do it?”

Rey shakes her head no but sticks to her line. “Leia never said why. But I knew it was to stall you from reinstating the Old Laws and the Lottery.”

“Because at some point during the course of your betrothal to my uncle, they managed to convince you the Lottery is the root of all evil in the galaxy? And that my grandfather was a horrid, despotic ruler bent on achieving galactic domination through a bloody reign of terror? And that I am just like him and destined to finish what he started?” This last comes out with unmistakable sarcasm.

She steals another glance at him, then flinches. He’s so angry, and he doesn’t even know the half of what she’s done. All she can think of is how close she was to having all of it, everything she ever wanted, if only…

He lifts her from her seat, his scent roiling with acrid emotion.

“I believe we are abominably late to our party. We must at least make an appearance so I can salvage this disaster.”

“But? Ben, surely you don’t mean to pretend as if nothing has happened?”

“I rescind my permission for you to speak that name aloud, ever,” he barks, his voice cracking like a whip. “Do so again at your peril.”

“I’m sorry, B–my lord.” Her own voice quivers, and she cannot help it, to appeal for mercy, to seek some comfort in his gaze, though she doesn’t deserve it.

“And I fear you misunderstand the severity of the situation, princess. I absolutely _do_ intend to pretend none of this happened. Can you imagine the utter bedlam it will inspire if word gets out my own wife and mother were conspiring against me for nearly a year, right under my gods-damned nose?”

 _Leia._ He reads the panic in her expression and he sneers knowingly, “I will deal with her, I promise. But you ought to be far more concerned with your own, immediate danger. Please believe my public conduct will have no bearing whatsoever upon our private relationship. You may quite readily assure yourself I will extract my penance from you in short order.”

His grip tightens and he jerks her arm, towing her to the exit as if she’s a recalcitrant child.

“Penance?”

At her breathless question, he halts and whirls on her, forcing her to stumble on the hem of her gown.

 _Oh, gods, his eyes._ The amber depths burn and crackle with supernatural energy, smoldering with despair. With wrath. For her.

“Don’t you dare start crying and ruin your pretty makeup,” he growls, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at her face with incongruous delicacy. “Façades must be maintained, or did my mother not teach you _that_ at the very least? No?”

She shakes her head, disbelieving. _My fault._

“What would you have me say? How am I to react to all of this, Rey?” His voice breaks over her name and with it her heart.

“I’m so sorry. I–” He puts a finger to her lips, silencing her.

“No. It’s not entirely your fault. I, too, have erred. Master Snoke was right,” he muses. “I ought to have listened to him, that is all. He tried to warn me, and I was a fool. You…are just like _her._ A treacherous bitch.” He stops and gives her a long stare, hot with fury and pain and humiliation and disbelief. She watches each sentiment wash over his face before he freezes and dons his old mask of imperturbable arrogance. “No, not a bitch. I suppose that analogy doesn’t suit at all. Even dogs have more loyalty than you.”

She cannot argue because he’s right. She is a traitor of the foulest sort, though his words cut deeper than any blade ever could. 

“Come. We are unforgivably tardy to our own soiree. We shall make an appearance, and then…then we shall return to my quarters and finish this conversation.”

“Finish?”

“Yes, finish. I don’t believe a word of what you just told me. I think there’s more to this, much more. And I intend to get to the bottom of it. And I _will_ get to the bottom of it, do you understand?” He gives her a rough shake.

Unbidden, his old threat to Lor San Tekka springs into her mind.

_“You will answer my questions here and now, or I will draw your blood and rip the truth from your mind regardless. I would advise you that particular procedure is wholly unpleasant.”_

The threat is as transparent as the glass walls of the orangery.

He’ll do it. Draw her blood and force the truth out of her.

And with the moon waxing full and her hours away from falling into heat, she won’t be able to stop him.

There are things, things she knows…too many damning things that can destroy too many lives.

_I am going to lose. Everything._

_I need to run._

“So, you will question me…and then what?” she blurts, all calm, cold demeanor evaporating under the smoldering fury in his gaze and the sudden, swooping horror of inevitability. “…you will kill me?”

“ _Kill_ you?” He shakes his head, incredulous. “Don’t be stupid, Rey. How in the devil’s name am I supposed to get an heir off you if you’re fucking dead?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit's about to get real dark, my friends...like...the working title for next chapter is "Gravewalker"...


	28. Gravewalker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific reminder to READ THE TAGSSSSS. 
> 
> All read? Phew! Okay. How’s everyone? All good? Feeling like frogs in the pot of water, yet? Is it heating up? Boiling? 
> 
> I said I’d warn you when we get here, and well, the next couple of chapters are going to be rough. Really rough. 
> 
> If you’ve read my notes, tags, and hints within the context of the story, then you know we’ve been working up to this point for a while.
> 
> And I don’t usually do this, but I feel like I need to on this one: I would like to emphatically remind everyone _this is and has always been a dark story._
> 
> If you decide that’s enough and you want to peace out, fair enough, and no judgment, no hard feelings.
> 
> If by some miracle you’ve arrived here and are legitimately shocked at what happens next…I don’t know what to tell ya. I did my best to be as transparent as I could.
> 
> In this story – and I don’t know how else to say it – I need our protagonists to be broken. Not damaged, or inconvenienced, or even justifiably, righteously pissed off.
> 
> I need them devastated.
> 
> Yeah. You read that right. I need them DESTROYED. In all the ways they can be. Morally, mentally, maybe even a bit physically.
> 
> See, when shit is shattered, demolished, and utterly fucked, it carves out a space inside us. 
> 
> And within that space is where the magic happens. It’s happening to all of us right fucking now, in the middle of this horrible pandemic. It’s happening in different ways for each of us, but it's happening. Don’t think for one minute we aren’t all being shaped and changed and broken.
> 
> It's awful and exhausting and hard and it sucks. But this is what makes room for the deepest soul-searching, the hardest self-acknowledgement, and the strongest motivation to pick yourself up and fight another day.
> 
> So, I’m not doing this halfway. I can’t. And while it may be Rey’s turn to break today (and over the course of the next few chapters), don’t think for a minute Ben’s reckoning isn’t coming, and coming hard.
> 
> But first, he’s gonna kinda turn into that dark monstrous God of Death we've all been waiting for.
> 
> So. If you’re still here, buckle in and find something to grab onto. 
> 
> The bullet pain train just left the station.
> 
> Next stop, Angstville. Hope you packed for a lengthy visit.

# Chapter Twenty-Eight – Gravewalker

The only other beings in the known galaxy who can do it are the High Priest Snoke and His Holiness, Himself.

To maintain one’s grip on reality and employ dark magic without the need to travel to the Underworld requires an enormous force of will, coupled with complete submersion in darkness. Or, as Snoke has tried to explain on numerous occasions, a total and absolute rejection of the Light.

_You cannot serve them both. You must choose._

And Kylo always believed he _has_ chosen. He truly thought, in the depths of his heart, that he has willingly given himself to the Dark Side, he just needs time. After all, he reasons, only the very strongest ever managed it before, and although Kylo has been putting forth his best efforts, surely he just needs more guidance from Snoke.

When Snoke returned to Coruscant a month ago, the High Priest made no secret of his disappointment with Kylo’s lack of progress, nor did he downplay the seriousness of his impending threat to annul Kylo’s marriage if Kylo couldn’t _very_ soon manage even the simple job of begetting an heir.

_I have assigned you only two tasks and you have yet to achieve either one. My disappointment in your performance thus far cannot be overstated._

Secretly perplexed, Kylo has been unable to offer an explanation as to why he has not been able to at least manage to get Rey pregnant again, particularly considering how quickly it transpired before.

Rey has been examined by expert medical staff who have assured Kylo she is healthy and able to bear him children, despite her earlier miscarriage. And though they have been unable to ascertain just why she has not yet conceived, even given the added complication of her blood-of-gold, which makes most diagnoses by scan impossible, they all promise it will happen when it is meant to and sometimes these things are best left to the gods.

Rey makes similar claims, and Kylo has tried very much to take her encouraging words to heart. All he can do is continue to try, though it is slowly eroding his sanity. But he has grudgingly accepted there is only so much he can do, and so, the very second her scent evolves into that beckoning, luscious aroma of heat, he retires them both to his rooms for days on end to try again.

And after each time, when he discovers his failure anew, he willingly submits himself to the inevitable round of questions and reprimands administered so cruelly by his master. Snoke never allows excuses, and so Kylo keeps his mouth shut and suffers his penance in silence, at first from afar, and more recently from far too close.

Alone, the pressure from Snoke is a crushing burden to bear - Kylo is not unaware of the weight of his promise made to save Rey's life, nor is he ignorant of the consequences of failure, whether voluntary or otherwise - but to make matters worse, Snoke has promised if Kylo cannot accomplish what is expected of him, Palpatine, Lord Sidious, may be forced to make the unheard-of journey to Coruscant and hold Kylo personally accountable.

It is _this_ threat that truly curdles Kylo’s blood. In his limited encounters with His Holiness, each meeting leaves him deeply troubled and feeling more like a terrified child than a servant of the Faith. 

Palpatine is an unknown, whereas at least Kylo and Snoke have an understanding, brutal and unforgiving though it may be. 

Still, for the past month, Kylo has grown increasingly obsessed with trying to give himself wholly to the Dark Side, as his faith requires.

At Church, he _has_ made progress, though it has been slow and difficult. Snoke never takes more than Kylo is willing to give, and with great effort Kylo has been able to more easily conjure the cave and move magic between the Underworld and the living world. But his power slips away all too quickly and he can only grasp it for minutes at a time.

Gravewalking, Master Snoke calls it. Tipping the balance between the light and the Dark. As with any magic, there is a price to be paid, a consequence required in exchange.

And while traveling to the other Realm chips away at one’s sanity, sending others There requires blood. But if one is to accomplish truly miraculous magic, one must fully commit to Darkness. A simple enough trade, or so Kylo has always believed.

Herein has resided the eternal crux of Kylo’s conundrum. He feels at home in Darkness and has always willingly donned its shadowed cloak. But, simultaneously, his failure to hold it always seems to stem from how easily he is called back to the Light.

Instinctively, and much to Snoke’s disgust, he seeks it out and bends himself to it and wraps it around him, snug and safe. His master knows well how irresistible Kylo finds it, and though they have worked every day since Kylo joined the Faith to eradicate this weakness, they haven't quite managed it. Yet.

After his last sojourn _T_ _here_ with Rey, he knows he cannot risk travel to the Underworld again, not anytime soon. Not without severely endangering his sanity.

Therefore, he must either become stronger than his grandfather ever was and master the art of gravewalking or relinquish his hopes to build a dynasty.

He will be forced at best to live out his life as a normal man, shunning his manifest and gods-ordained destiny and shrink into obscurity, instead.

As his mother and uncle would surely love above all else.

_Why must everything I love betray me?_

But.

Upon discovering his beloved's perfidy, he can finally see the Truth in Snoke's teachings. The light is and has always been an illusion.

And he has no use for illusions anymore.

Apparently, he just needed the right catalyst, the single, obvious _thing_ to fundamentally prove the light has always been and will always be a lie.

Rey. His source. While he might yet love her, her treachery knows no bounds.

_I should have known. And somehow, I’ve always known._

_I can only serve one master._

_I must choose._

The choice is so much easier now. 

Now he has no light, nor any need for it. The spark is out, and only darkness remains.

It no longer matters _why,_ only that it is real.

It is painful to face, and yet he examines it and finds it hard and cold and true and so he wields the truth unto his heart like a sword.

He can be grateful she has played a part in his epiphany. Her betrayal is the thing that finally brings him around to doing it.

Gravewalking.

Pulling the darkness into the world of the living.

It’s ridiculously easy, once the veil is torn.

He finally understands what Snoke was trying to show him.

Physical pain is a crutch, a rudimentary tool to get one _T_ _here_ because weaker ones lack the capacity to linger in both realms simultaneously.

Because they lack the strength.

Because they cling to the light.

It’s why Snoke urged him to kill his old self, Ben Solo. It’s why Snoke was adamant that Han Solo’s manner of execution was so hideous and why he insists on a blood penance for every life Kylo takes.

Because up until about five minutes ago, Kylo wasn’t particularly fond of killing or death or mayhem.

Up until about five minutes ago, he considered those things necessary evils.

But now? After learning his mother and his beloved wife have been working against him for the past year? After everything?

Oh, death and mayhem sound rather appetizing. 

Master Snoke will be quite thrilled to hear it, Kylo knows. But Snoke is not here, and nothing matters anymore.

_I will only ever be the God of Death. Feared and loathed. Respected, worshiped even._

_But never loved._

_So be it._

Let them meet the monster they have made.

Lightning flickers eerily through the windows lining the upper part of the gallery and thunder crashes just beyond the enormous golden dome of the palace.

It _never_ rains in Coruscant, however, tonight the exception seems to be making itself known with flagrant defiance.

Rain drums against the high windows in tempo to her pounding heart and one, singular thought.

_He knows. He knows. He knows._

For once Rey can only think of here and now. Not of the past, with her extensive training and planning and contingencies against the unavoidable. Not of the future, or of the billions of people who may pay the price for her actions.

Everything before the moment he entered her room has ceased to exist.

Even Padmé Amidala’s rubies are long forgotten.

All but the raw malevolence seething out of him is suddenly turned to ashes.

He pulls her through the festively lit small gallery, forcing her to keep pace with his long-legged stride until she is practically running.

_I need to run. I need to get off this bloody planet._

And she will.

But she can’t shake off his iron grip just yet.

All too soon, they arrive at the Great Hall and are barely announced to the room at large, already packed with guests well into their cups, before he unceremoniously leads her to the middle of the floor for their opening dance. She tries to shrug him off, to pull away, but he is infuriatingly insistent.

“What’s the matter, little wife? Feeling flighty? Scared? _Ohhh_ , you should be,” he mocks quietly, nostrils flaring as he catches wind of her scent, growing more and more untamed as the moon approaches full knot.

_I have less than hours. I need to leave this City. He’ll do it, question me. And he’ll find out everything, everything. He is – something isn’t right._

As if to contradict her, he takes her in his arms with utmost gentility, intending to begin their dance. But something catches his eye and he pauses.

No. Not something. Someone.

The music starts then stops again when the players realize he isn’t moving, and every soul in the Great Hall falls quiet, alert in the way only a large crowd can be when sensing danger in its midst.

“Lady Bazine, I would speak with you,” Kylo calls out and Rey’s heart drops to her feet.

_Oh, gods, no, he cannot possibly mean to do this here and now._

Bazine, for her part, manages to quickly cover her initial startlement with a coy simper and passes her goblet to the ever-hovering Lord Kaplan. Like a serpent, she slithers through the dazzling crowd of masqueraders, making her way to them only with enough haste to be respectful while still moving indolently enough to ensure every eye in the room has time to fall upon her.

Except for Rey. Rey can’t look at her. She knows what comes next.

_I’m sorry._

Bazine drops into a very low curtsy, managing to display an extravagant abundance of cleavage, a remarkable feat considering she’s garbed like all the other ladies present in a simple, peasant-style gown.

But it is when her eyes meet Rey’s with exaggerated innocence that Rey’s heart hardens. The woman is clearly picking up on the “trouble in paradise” vibes between her lord and lady and has no shame in openly making her availability and willingness to insert herself publicly known.

_You fool. You will die this night, if not my hand, then certainly by my word. And this is your final act? To try to seduce my husband so boldly?_

“Lady Bazine,” Kylo purrs, and Rey trembles at his lethal tenor of speech. “I would inquire after your alchemist’s good health?”

Bazine blinks, confused. But she answers in low tones to match Kylo’s, “My alchemist is in very good health, my lord, and I thank you for asking.”

“I assume such a person enjoys your regular custom and has for some time now?” Kylo continues.

Bazine appears puzzled by the question before a sly grin slides over her face.

“Yes, my lord. Every month, my lord. Like clockwork. My lord.”

Suddenly, Rey wants to slap the stupid cow.

 _She thinks he’s propositioning an affair,_ Rey fumes, temporarily forgetting this is the precise scenario she intended to orchestrate.

_As if he’d be such a cad as to do it in the middle of a crowded ballroom._

Well, he’s certainly cad enough to make a ghastly scene. Rey braces herself for what is sure to be a most unpleasant confrontation.

When Kylo interrogated her at her dressing table just moments ago, it was no great gamble on her part to assume a woman like Bazine – indeed that a few ladies of the court – would occasionally indulge in measures to prevent unwanted pregnancies, though the concept is uncommon among wealthy, high-born Omegas, especially those of the High Court, since bearing many children is a sign of status and prosperity.

But Bazine is childless and seems to be the rare exception, a peculiarity of which Rey has taken full advantage.

Kylo extends a hand, wordlessly imploring the woman to stand. Bazine lifts her chin and throws a gleeful smile to Rey.

But when it becomes evident Kylo’s gesture is not one of benign invitation, Bazine shrinks back under his flat stare, her smile fading away.

“Lady Bazine. Word has reached me you’ve expressed an interest in elevating yourself above your station? Perhaps even in usurping my wife’s?”

“My lord?” Bazine blinks rapidly now, head swerving between Kylo’s forbidding gaze and Rey’s own narrowed eyes.

_What’s wrong, Bazine? Is this not going according to plan?_

His quicksilver temper must be infusing her, as well. Likely an effect of their bond and overly wrought emotions and the moon.

“…I…would not dream of it…unless…” she falters, taking a hasty step back. Kylo gestures just out of her line of vision, two quick scoops of air with his fingers. _Come here._

Two Omicrons approach and none-too-subtly block further retreat.

“Remind me of what you said. Earlier. In your rooms,” Kylo mutters to Rey, not lifting his scrutiny from the cowering Bazine.

“It was one year ago exactly,” Rey replies. Every person in the ballroom is motionless, eyes glittering like jewels from behind their masques and colorfully painted faces. The candles and lamps seem to have dimmed under the extraordinary tension.

Kylo picks up the story again, having pinned Bazine under his unrelenting gaze. “Oh yes. Lady Bazine and Lady Jessica had retired to the ladies’ room. Midway through the ball. You had a conversation about me there, did you not?” 

Color blossoms across Bazine’s face and down her neck in ugly blotches beneath her masquerade paint.

Her expression alone indicts her, but Rey can only press forward. _If he can make a scene, then so shall I._

“You said you would enjoy to spend a night in my husband’s bed," Rey pipes in. "You made a few indecent remarks about his…endowments, as I recall.”

If she was red before, Bazine is now nearly purple with embarrassment. Still, she nods and agrees, “Well, yes, I did, milord, but… _ahhh…um_ …”

A light titter ripples through the onlookers, as every eye in the hall discreetly transfixes upon Kylo’s very snug-fitting dancing breeches.

He clears his throat and grunts, “…I’m much more concerned with what you asserted about me and my motives for marriage. My lady tells me you were _quite_ insulting...”

Bazine blanches.

“…and I recall explicitly informing this court my wife’s blood is as mine own? And that any insult to her would be as to me _directly_?”

Bazine cannot argue this; she witnessed Canady’s public downfall and Kylo's subsequent announcement.

Ruthlessly Kylo persists, “You called her a… _breeder_?” This term is so incredibly rude to utter aloud several members of the onlooking crowd cry out in shock. “And said my only use for her was to _whelp pups_?” Lady Bonteri’s fan flutters to a halt and drops to the ground.

“But perhaps in having such a low opinion of my lady, you were happy to participate in collusion? And treason?”

A vein pulses in Bazine’s forehead as she sputters, “Wait. What? Treason?”

“I imagine a social-climber like you might find it tempting to devise an advantage for yourself. Perhaps if your rival failed to produce the one thing I wished for? An heir? Isn’t that so? Perhaps you believed you might have stepped into her ladyship’s place to do the job if she would not? And so you provided her with the means to deny me what is mine by right?”

Even if it technically never happened that way, the fact Bazine probably thought about it a few times and perhaps even mentioned it to a friend is perfectly obvious by the look of stark terror on her face.

And again, the logical leap is not a difficult one to make. Even if it’s untrue, any argument Bazine offers at this point will only add to her appearance of guilt.

But Bazine is made of sterner stuff than Rey may have realized.

"Well," Bazine mutters, "her ladyship has yet to give you an heir, my lord."

_Oh, you fool. You are only cinching the noose around your own neck._

Kylo sighs and indicates for the guards to take her in hand. Apparently this statement is enough to convict her. 

"Indeed," he hisses, then to the guards, "Take her away." 

“If I’m being accused of something beyond idle gossip, I demand a trial!” Bazine declares stoutly.

“What do you think literally just occurred? In front of all of these witnesses?” Kylo sneers and gestures with open palms to the crowd at large. “I was about to issue your verdict.” 

A collective gasp emerges from the crowd and Bazine sends a pleading, confused look to Rey. "I-I don't understand!" 

_I know and I’m sorry. I had to choose, and I couldn’t choose Rose._

He lifts his chin to the guards, and Bazine shouts “Wait!” but the Omicrons are already dragging her across the ballroom floor. Rey knows the woman won’t see the light of another day.

A murmur of scandalized horror whispers through their guests, half of them scintillated and the other half shocked. Kylo nods to the troupe leader who sycophantically signals his fellow musicians to start up the music. 

He ignores everyone else and pulls her against him, unyieldingly bracing her against his chest. The music flows forth and his breath tickles hot on her neck as he spins her into a waltz.

His scent has grown distinctly dangerous. Menacing. 

“Never fear, my love, she’ll get a quick, clean death. I expect you’ll be begging me for the same before this evening is through.”

Rey’s knees nearly buckle at the vicious threat. She tries to pull away, but he expertly adjusts his hold and sweeps her into a dizzying series of turns.

Only minutes pass, but it feels like hours as he swiftly paces her from one end of the ballroom to the other. It takes a considerable bit of concentration for her not to trip over her feet at the rapid velocity with which he moves them.

Outside, the nearly full moon is blotted out by heavy, tumbling clouds and another ominous rumble of thunder quakes through the palace. The onlooking guests shift nervously, their attention darting between the storm building just outside the stained-glass windows of the Great Hall and their lord and lady’s palpable discord.

The timing cannot be more perfect, really: Their dance ends, and Kylo bows over Rey’s limp hand with sardonic deference. She is still trying to catch her breath so she might deliver a scathing reprimand over his behavior, when one of his Knights rushes forth and sinks into a kneel with a graceful clatter of armor, moving so quickly he slides on the floor just a bit.

“My lord, forgive me, truly, but it’s your mother. She’s escaped.”

Lightning clashes just outside and thunder booms so noisily several guests exclaim aloud.

_I thought I saw..._

Riveted, Rey watches his lip curl back with pure, evil anticipation.

“And?”

“We can have someone trailing her, my lord, but the City is becoming dangerous – riots are breaking out everywhere, especially in the Scrum. She’ll be slowed down, but so will we. She seems to have taken the young maid, Beebee, with her.”

“Riots?” Kylo snaps his gaze to Rey. “And what do you know of this, my darling?”

Every light in the ballroom dims and flickers, and her heart thunders like the storm outside.

_Is he…doing that?_

The air around them crackles with electric tension and Rey can’t find her breath.

He levels his gaze at her until nothing exists but the pace of his breathing.

_...is he? What is he doing?_

She tries to stop him, but he’s relentless and he’s _seeing_ …

Fingers of compulsion grip her skull and dig in, so forcefully she can _feel_ it, feel the actual stinging pull of it when he catches a glimpse and _takes_ something…

_…if anyone ever catches you bringing this to me, Beebee, even if it is his lordship himself, you must do something for me…it’s terribly important._

“Locate her ladyship’s maid, Rose,” he orders softly, baring his teeth. “She’s quartered in the palace with one of the household guards, Finn. Bring her to me.”

_Oh, gods…no._

His lips part with concentration, and he’s staring at her, no, he’s staring _into_ her. As if he’s pried open a void in her mind and is taking over, slipping inside and flooding the empty spaces with pitch-black shadow. She tries to find her center, the loyal flame of light that is always there, always has _been_ there…only now…

_Resist it, Rey._

_Oh, gods, I can’t find it can’t find it…_

Time slams to a standstill, and she cannot move. Avidly, greedily, he inspects her, licking his chops like a hungry wolf, circling around as everyone looks on, awestruck and mesmerized.

_I’m in your blood…_

“You are in _so…much…trouble,_ ” he warns quietly.

Having come full circle, he stops in front of her and tilts his head, first one way and then another, like a hunter deciding the best way to lunge for the kill, and her pulse skips a beat. She can’t tear her eyes from his. Something blacker than death glows behind them, making his pupils appear to be lit as with hellfire.

_Show me._

She wills herself to think of something else, anything else, but it is too late. Her earliest memory of Leia Organa pops into her head as clearly as if he’s plucked it out and set it in the middle of the ballroom floor.

_"Just how close are you to my mother?”_

_“We became well acquainted in the year after my betrothal to…”_

_Lie._

Another burst of lightning strikes the window above the massive doors, raining shattered glass down into the hall. And for the briefest flash, she can see _it_ again. The face from her dreams, from the nightmare he swore it was…

_...you..._

“You,” he hisses in an inhuman voice, “…oh, Rey…”

Jagged illumination forks high across the ceiling, and a brief, startled scream bursts forth when the white of his skull glows under his skin and the corruption in his veins pulses with darkness. It only lasts for half a second, maybe less.

But it is no trick of the light.

"You said it was just a nightmare," she whispers. 

He chuckles without humor and does not break his stare. "Well, I suppose I lied, too, princess." 

Their guests begin to crowd away from the windows, fleeing to the other side of the ballroom or wisely heading for the exit, and Rey wonders wildly if he is somehow causing the storm to–

But then someone calls out – _Look! Look at the floor!_ – and she glances down.

Malevolent black pours across the luminescence beneath their feet, spreading like swirling clouds of ink to the very edges of the room.

Invisible claws dig into her skin and she finds herself unable to move despite a very strong desire to run far, far away.

_“It’s the God of Death…”_

_“He’s killing her…”_

_“The prophecies…”_

_“Gods help us!”_

To the audience at large, he growls, “I regret this party is over. All of you will return to your quarters, where you will remain until further notice. Anyone attempting to leave or caught out of bounds will be shot on sight.”

He punctuates this edict with a vicious barrage of lightning that crawls wickedly overhead and scorches the arches above his throne. Menacing shadows dance and crawl over the walls and a blast of icy wind bursts through the broken windows, shattering them further, but not before utter chaos erupts all around.

The guests are in full panic now, from the terrifying darkness surging out of _him._

“…what are you doing?” Rey pants, trying to shake off his intractable grip. Instead of turning her loose, he spins her roughly and twists her arm behind her back. 

“I see my mother’s hand in this…since you were a _child_? Oh, sweet gods. You’re in _much_ deeper than you ever let on, aren’t you?”

He wraps a fist around her hair so he can propel her in front of him. 

A wild gasp ripples through the crowd as Omicrons begin pouring into the ballroom to hustle the lingering guests to their rooms.

Only then does Mitaka rush forth to stand where Kylo’s Knight had knelt before bolting away to fetch Rose at Kylo’s command.

“My lord, it’s Hosnia.”

“What?”

“They’re demanding you communicate with their Governor immediately to discuss terms.”

“Terms for what?” he barks.

Mitaka for his part remains impressively composed. “We cannot confirm the validity of the signal, but they claim they’re defecting, my lord, and that Coruscant is under threat.”

_It is under threat. Dire threat. But from what?_

Another burst of lightning cracks into the hall behind her and every light in the cavernous room winks out, snuffed dead by an invisible hand of darkness.

The scent of brimstone fills her nose.

Over a deep boom of thunder, she can hear the roar of what sounds like a very angry mob outside. She glances over her shoulder. 

And he laughs, a deep, luxurious bellow when he meets her eyes and sees the truth.

“No.” He yanks hard on her hair and moves out of the Hall, towing her along like flotsam on a storm-tossed sea. “It’s a distraction. That communication isn’t from Hosnia. It’s my mother trying to leave this planet.” He gives Rey’s hair another tug and she yelps in fear, bent nearly in half as he hustles her along. “And if she leaves, I am going to obliterate… _everyone_ …”

Rey tries to pull away again and he grinds out, “Now, there's no avoiding it, my love, come along. First I must deal with that mob outside. _Then_ you.”

Dark energy spews forth as he pushes her through the small gallery. The lanterns sputter and die in their wake as if a malicious wind blows them out. Rey stumbles along but he nonetheless moves at a breakneck pace to his apartments.

He is on the very edge of pulling the Underworld down around their ears, but he won’t do it.

No, he is finally, _fully_ in command.

This. Yes, _this_ is the seductive magic Snoke has been trying to pull out of him all this time, after so many endless hours of suffering at Church.

This is what happens when he lets go of the light.

He’s never felt stronger, more in control. Part of him is so relieved. He finally understands _exactly_ why his grandfather was so tempted to abandon all restraint and simply wield the darkness at will.

_It belongs to me. Mine. Why should I not use it?_

Because it is _glorious_. And so very, deliciously obedient.

Mitaka jogs alongside with a holocron pad, and Kylo starts barking orders, knowing his servant will issue his commands to the letter.

“Halt all outgoing air traffic immediately. Any ship that isn’t one of mine gets blown out of the sky.”

“Yes, lord.”

“Where’s Hux?”

“He’s…I believe he is on special leave, my lord. _A-hem_ …on _Alpha_ leave.”

“I don’t fucking care if he’s in the middle of rut. Find him. Now.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I expect my senior staff in my council room in five minutes. We _will_ find my mother and put a stop to those riots, or I will unleash bloody hell on this City.” He looks to Rey and pushes her towards his rooms with a bruising shove. “Come, my darling, you can ponder your fate in here until my return. Although I very much fear you’ll have to do it alone, since your little maid will be unable to join you. Once I get my hands on her...”

“No!” Rey screams, clawing at his brutal grip, but she is unable to dislodge him, foolish girl. He shakes her hard enough to slam her teeth together, temporarily stunning her. He turns and scowls at his Knight, returning empty-handed. 

“My lord, forgive me but the maid is nowhere to be found, and...”

“And?” Kylo bites out impatiently.

“The soldier she was quartered with has disappeared as well. They’re both gone.”

“Traitorous whore!” Kylo hisses, eyes flashing with rage as he glares furiously at Rey. “Are they with my mother? Where did she go?” he snaps, giving her another rough shake. “Hmmm?”

Rey opens her mouth to answer, but she’s a liar proven time and again and he has no time for her games. His dagger finds its way into his hand and it is all too easy to snatch her finger and prick it and draw it into his mouth as he’s witnessed his own master do to him a thousand, thousand times.

Her knees buckle and her eyes glaze over and she squeals with fright, but he only grips harder and digs in a talon of compulsion, sucking in a delicious red mouthful of blood, savoring it on his tongue like a fine, vintage wine… _gods, she tastes so fucking good..._

He extracts an answer with terrifying ease.

He glowers at Rey, wondering if he's missing something, though he speaks to his servant. “Leia Organa was informed of my plan to track her to my uncle. She intends to locate transport and leave this planet and if she achieves her goal, _on my blood_ there will be hell to fucking pay.”

Rey is whimpering and trying to squirm away, but he pulls her along. The scent of her deep-rooted fear mixed with impending heat sends rockets of lust shooting through his veins. He is vastly tempted to have another taste of her. 

But not just yet.

 _Time for that soon enough._ They enter his bedchamber and he callously flings her in the direction of his bed.

Mitaka follows and very astutely begins to pull Kylo’s armor from the chest by the wall.

_Mob first. Then wife. And then…oh, Mother, you have no idea what’s coming for you._

With Mitaka’s efficient assistance, Kylo strips and dons different clothes, changing from banal masquerader into formidable warlord in less than minutes.

Rey can only look on, stunned, as if she’s never seen him before. He returns her scrutiny with a fulminating glare.

 _And you, little wife. You’d best be very, very afraid. I think you know_ exactly _what’s coming for you._

He sends her a humorless flash of teeth before he grits out in no uncertain terms, “Leave this room, or try to run from your fate, from me? I swear to the gods, I’ll make you regret it.”

He doesn't bother to wait for a response. He can smell her terror and it's enough she is taking him seriously for a change. Satisfied at the naked fear on her face, he strides to the door and leaves a final vow for her to think on, right before he snuffs out all the candles and casts her into utter darkness.

“I’m coming back for you, sweetheart. Very soon. That I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .....gaaaahhhhhh......
> 
> Just so ya'll know, I have about 18k words of the next part written, I just need to massage it and tweak it and figure out which parts to save for later and what to give you ASAP and OMG.....heeeeee, I'm so effing excited, you have NO IDEA.
> 
> XOXO and stay safe and healthy out there, my darlings. <3


	29. Hell Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __  
>  **…and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. (Revelation 6:8)**   
> 

# Chapter Twenty-Nine – Hell Rising

_The body behaves unexpectedly when confronted with danger. Sometimes it freezes, as prey knows that predators often only chase things that run._

_But other times, the body will be visited by an overpowering urge to flee and seek refuge from the danger, to hide._

_True Danger knows this and positions itself advantageously, so it might either strike a frozen creature or chase a fleeing one._

_Your job is to figure out which of these to become because at some point, for all of us, and for you especially, Danger will be unavoidable._

_Will danger not harm me, my lady?_

_Not unduly, child, no. You are very special. The blood in you is worth more than a kingdom. You may be exposed to pain, as we all are. But you are far too valuable to be destroyed._

_Even the very worst of monsters will think twice before taking your life._

_You are a shield against a fate of darkness for many, many people, Rey. You must be prepared to do the right thing, even if it is hard. Can you?_

_I…I think so, my lady._

_That’s very good, child. You came here as an orphan, and that will never change. You will always be alone._

_But. If you are brave and strong and willing, you will make me so…so very proud. Perhaps as proud as your own mother might have been, had she lived. Do you think you can do it?_

_Yes, my lady._

_Good. You’re a good girl._

_So…but…will I never have…a family?_

_The Resistance is your family now._

* * *

_Get up. Get up and run, you fool._

She huddles on the floor next to his bed, her mind spinning as she wastes precious minutes wavering between the unknown terror of what happens if she runs and the even worse knowledge of what awaits her if she stays.

The room is shuttered in darkness, and the air is still thick with the scent of his lingering rage. Though she can hardly see, she does not have time to try to relight the candles or the fire in the hearth. Her eyes adjust to the ambient light creeping in through the windows. Beyond, heavy black thunderheads block the moonlight, and lightning flashes like a strobe.

Rey forces herself from her crouch, fumbling in the flickering, unreliable darkness.

_I must run. I must leave this place._

Shaking, she shuffles to his dressing table, seeking and finding a small, cleverly made little box with a phoenix carved onto the lid.

Her hands tremble, but even shaken as she is now, she can open the puzzle box in the dark – she’s done it countless times before – and when the lid slides away, a heavy stone falls into her palm.

A ruby worth a battalion of warriors. Kylo’s _keepsake_ , and hopefully enough to tempt someone into helping her buy passage off this godsforsaken planet.

Rose swears the people are loyal to her and they will help their lady.

_Gods, I hope you were not mistaken. Oh, Rose, I hope you are able to get away before he finds you._

She has no idea how long it will take him to handle the rioting mob outside, but she is almost in heat, less than hours away from being rendered nearly insensible. Unless she can either escape the pull of the moon or get her hands on a miracle suppressant, she’s going to be in very dire straits.

_Soon. But not just yet._

Still, the thought is certainly enough inspiration to stir a strong sense of urgency in her.

If she can escape, she expects she will be forced to endure a heat in hiding; without medical assistance or Kylo to help her that prospect seems untenable...a worst-case scenario.

_No. The worst is what happens if I run and he finds me._

And she must do anything, anything, to avoid that particular fate.

Because if her husband gets his hands on her in such a vulnerable state, she is sure she won’t be able to resist whatever magic he used earlier if he does it again and pulls more things out of her head.

Some things he absolutely _cannot_ see.

That magic he’d used in the ballroom…it was…wrong. Evil, even.

Horrible, crawling panic hits her in a terrifying wave, accompanied by a surge of adrenaline that makes her drop Kylo’s damned ruby pin – _no it’s mine, he gave it to me_ – and forces her to grope on her hands and knees in the dark to find it.

_Calm down. Stay calm._

Sudden laughter bubbles out of her, and she knows she is on the very edge of full-blown hysteria. Never in a million years would she have guessed _this_ is how she would end the night, particularly the part where she’s crawling on her hands and knees in her husband’s bedchamber, searching for a near-priceless gem so she can run away from him. While on the verge of going into heat.

“We must always be prepared for any eventuality,” she sings under her breath, mocking her tutors’ oft-repeated words. Time seems to be passing far too quickly and if she cannot find the ruby soon, she will have to decide whether to abandon it and run or stay and face him.

_He’s too strong…whatever he did, whatever dark magic that was, it was…too much…too powerful._

Just when she is ready to give up the search, her fingertips brush against the precious stone and she clutches it tight in her palm, scrambling to stand so quickly she stumbles on her gown and very nearly sends herself headfirst into Kylo’s dressing table.

The thought of knocking herself unconscious causes her to emit a hilarious yelp of laughter before she forces a few deep, calming breaths.

_Gods, this is madness._

He could return any minute.

She can hear the crash of thunder punctuated by pounding rain against the windowpanes, an event that in any other circumstance would elicit no small degree of fascination on her part. Water falling from the skies in such abundance will always be a marvel to a girl raised in the desert.

_I suppose I’ll be out in the rain soon enough and I can witness it firsthand._

Carefully, she listens for sounds beyond the room’s door and guesses he won’t be back just yet. Under the raging storm outside, she can hear the faintest ominous rumble that can only be many thousands of angrily raised voices.

A mob of rioters. She wonders what Leia did to launch her contingency plan and rouse the people so quickly and vehemently. Although Leia probably didn’t intend to leave Coruscant tonight, after Kylo’s discovery of her birth control, she would know to get off the planet or risk being executed as her husband was.

At least Beebee did as she was told and got to Rose in time.

_Rose will get them to safety and all I need do is figure out where they are going, so I can go too._

As she scrabbles blindly through the room in search of the servants’ panel into the tunnels, she thinks back to the first time Rose brought her birth control.

“It’s untraceable,” Rose had told her, slipping the vial into Rey’s hand.

“Are you sure?” Rey heard this promise before, from Hux, and while he’d been technically correct, Snoke's unforeseen intervention still caused problems. 

“I tried it myself and had a scan performed to be sure.”

“And how often do I need to drink it?”

“Every month, though it might be effective for a bit longer in between heats. But you _must_ take a dose immediately before a heat, or…” Rose shrugged. “It’s alchemy. She said it’s both _specific and not specific_ , whatever that means.”

“All right. I suppose it doesn’t matter _how_ it works so long as it _does_ work. Will it affect…my um…?” Rey paused, trying to figure out how to ask if the dratted concoction would inhibit her sex drive. Kylo would definitely notice if she wasn’t _properly_ enthusiastic. “Will he be able to tell?”

“No. She swears it. Nobody will know.”

“Well, the High Priest could tell about…the _other_ thing.” Rey said distrustfully.

Rose looked at her for a long moment. “Well, then don’t give anyone a reason to be looking for it.”

“What if you can’t get it to me? Where does it come from?”

“She’s very good, very discreet. Her name is Maz Kanata. She’s an alchemist in the Upper Market. And very loyal to you, my lady. She flies the Phoenix Rising banner proudly. She tells me time and again she is a friend and happy to serve.”

“You’re sure she’s in Market Level? Not Street Level?” Rey prodded, wanting to be sure. She would not compound the risk to Rose’s safety by sending her to the Scrum. Not when her loyal maid was already risking her life…

“Yes. On Nymeve Street.”

Rey nodded. _Good._ She eyed the small vial with distaste, loathe to swallow anything from a vial ever again.

“Henceforth, I think it better if we smuggle this to me in plain sight. In case Phasma or someone else is watching.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Perhaps as a tonic for my digestion or something harmless. Something that won’t arouse suspicion. And we shall need to find someone else to bring it, so you are not implicated.”

“All right. I swear I won’t let you down.” Rose’s dark eyes shone with sincere promise and Rey hugged her close.

And Rose hasn’t let her down, not once. She’s been faithfully retrieving Rey’s so-called _tonic_ every single month and having it delivered via Beebee, a gods’-send who came to live at the palace just after.

Nobody questioned Beebee’s comings and goings, not even Phasma or Kylo.

_They will now. Gods, I hope she’s all right._

Rey tells herself she’s running to protect them. Rose and Leia and Beebee.

They are all in such danger. Rey has spent the past eleven months feeding information to the Phoenix, information someone only _very_ close to Kylo Ren would be able to gather.

Information such as Kylo’s plan to allow his mother to escape so she might lead him to Luke Skywalker, which is why Leia has stayed put, until now.

Information that bought the Resistance time to regroup, even warning them when Kylo’s eye fell on Hosnia after they defected from the First Order. He'd planned to make an example to the galaxy and blast them out of the sky, but she was able to intervene and even coax him into talks of a peace treaty, instead. 

And while it saved lives, Rey gave up more than facts and cold data. It is this that makes her chest burn with guilt.

Leia and Hux both quizzed her relentlessly for details on his emotional state, wondering about his internal conflicts and private thoughts, seeking information they could use to anticipate future plans.

Information that would truly weaken the First Order while empowering the remnants of the Free Senate and spawning the subsequent relocation and fortification of the Resistance. 

With Hux at Kylo’s right hand, guiding his head, and Rey on the left, guiding his heart, they made an effective pair, working well together despite her loathing for the man. Double rooks, they were, powerful pieces and nearly invincible when working in tandem.

She tells herself she’s running to protect everyone, even Kylo.

But she cannot face the truth. Her own betrayal has wounded him beyond imagining.

Mostly, she runs so she might never see that look in his eyes again, the devastating realization followed by endless hurt when he comprehends the _extent_ of what she’s done, when he sees her full complicity in working against him to thwart his every move.

And even worse, how her actions have tricked him into believing he’s brought justice to those who have wronged her, specifically. 

A hot wave of conscience surges through her again.

The late Captain Canady’s concubine was framed for Rey’s poisoning and executed brutally for it.

A few weeks after their heated conversation in the orangery, Hux framed the woman by planting the vial in her room and then conducting a search to ensure it was found.

Kylo has no idea he put an innocent woman to death, of course. Nor does he realize he’s about to do the same thing to Bazine, probably just as soon as he metes out retribution to a few others, first.

_Like me._

_I can’t do this anymore. I need to run._

Filled with sudden self-loathing, she jabs the sharp end of the ruby pin into her palm and ignores the sting as blood pools into her cupped hand.

She opens the servant's panel to the tunnels and finds a single Omicron standing guard.

And here it seems her luck has finally turned in her favor.

_Only one._

She dips a finger into the little pool of blood in her palm. Given the moon and her impending heat, the potency of her scent alone is enough to knock him senseless if she isn't careful.

The guard watches, unable to tear his eye from her motions. Not wasting another second, she quietly, deliberately drags her bloody finger across the ugly, puckered scar on his neck. Right where his scent gland used to be.

“Follow me, Alpha. I need you.”

* * *

“Why the rioting?” he asks, holding his temper in check by a bare thread only because he knows it is counterproductive to terrify his generals into speechlessness if he wants answers.

“They are s-saying the Lady Persephone is dead, my lord. By _your_ hand.”

_Mother or her agent stirring rumors to foment chaos so she can escape. It’s the only explanation._

He suspects Rey’s maid and the soldier Finn are involved, but he can't confirm it. Still, their disappearance is too coincidental. Beneath his towering rage, he feels another sting of betrayal at Finn's disloyalty, of all things.

_Traitor. I will Bleed you along with all the others…just as soon as you are delivered back to the palace._

Speaking of missing players.

“Why in god's bloody knot has no one been able to locate Hux?” he snarls to a hovering Mitaka, who is punching at a holocron pad with increasing fervency.

“He was on patrol on the star destroyer _Finalizer_ all week, milord. In orbit for security for the incoming guests for the ball…he registered for a few days’ leave yesterday…procured a small transport to Coruscant – _alone_ – and I can locate the transport, but I can’t confirm he is aboard it.”

“Where is the transport?”

“Uh, Canto Bight district, milord.” Mitaka trails off as several others in the room chuckle under their breath.

Canto Bight is unquestionably the street of choice for those who would pursue the bawdier entertainments of whoring and gaming.

 _Smack in the middle of the Scrum. For all of Hux’s complaints of the place, he certainly seems to enjoy spending his free time there,_ Kylo grouses to himself. The whole district will be bursting at the seams with revelers tonight and it will make Hux annoyingly hard to locate.

“…you say the riots seem to be headed that way?”

“Yes, milord. If he’s…ahhh, not near a means of communication, he’ll be difficult to find.”

“Send a dispatch there to retrieve him. In the meantime, we must sniff out Leia Organa and put a stop to these riots. Once you reach Hux, order him back to the _Finalizer._ He will take three battalions to Hosnia and await my orders there. Tell him he may take Starkiller with him.” Kylo says this last recklessly, furiously, and uncaring if he sounds slightly mad.

Mitaka turns a pasty white. “My lord, are you sure?” He is perhaps the only person in the room with enough courage to question him, and Kylo knows this is only because Mitaka is a Beta and cannot scent the true extent of Kylo’s escalating wrath.

Mitaka's question underscores the seriousness of the order. Starkiller is a weapon of such mass destruction, it can batter the core of a planet to a pulp in a matter of minutes. It is a weapon of old, employing technology inherited from a long-extinct species and only enhanced by time and humanity’s own bloodthirst and inventiveness.

Such a weapon has not been used since Vader’s time, and the destruction of Alderaan had long-lasting consequences, still very much fresh in everyone’s minds, even to this day.

To use it on Hosnia would do more than harm just that system; it would devastate the galaxy’s food supply.

Nevertheless, Kylo barks, “I’ve had enough. If Mother thinks I’m not above making an example of Hosnia to hold the entire fucking galaxy hostage over this, she’s very much mistaken.”

“Yes, Supreme Leader.”

“The rest of you have your orders. I advise you not to linger in the streets.”

A volley of acknowledgments follows a scuffing of chairs as his advisors and generals hurry to their posts to disburse armed soldiers strategically throughout the City.

Kylo’s Knights fall in behind him. He will check on Rey and wait for news from his generals before deciding if his personal intervention is needed to quell the rioting.

She will be very close to heat, and Kylo knows she'll be skittish.

As she should be. And though he’s only left her for less than an hour, he does not trust the wench.

_Nor will I. Ever again._

But even as he reaches the antechamber to their apartments, he knows she’s not inside. The royal suites are sparsely guarded, as most of the Omicrons have been tasked with holding the guests in their rooms and are disbursed in nearby wings of the palace.

_At my own bloody orders, no less._

He slams his way into his bedchamber and finds it shrouded in darkness and empty of Rey.

Fury floods through him. He does not need any light to see she’s gone and not just hiding. The darkness yields and he notes the items on his dressing table scattered over the surface, as if someone was searching for something in the dark. He grits his teeth when he discovers the conspicuous absence of her little phoenix box.

_She took it. And the ruby inside._

_Bitch._

Bellowing for someone to fetch Phasma, he strides to Rey’s rooms, thinking there might be a slight chance she’s there, instead.

But her rooms are even emptier, except for his grandmother’s rubies, still sitting in the lockbox on the bed where he’d tossed them earlier.

He dispatches half of his hovering Knights to hunt through the palace, and the other half to search the immediate surrounding area and grounds. If she’s not managed to get too far, they will find her, and quickly.

While he waits for Phasma to appear, he yanks open drawers and upends small furniture, seeking a hint of where or to whom she might have run.

_Foolish Omega. The moon is nearly at full knot and you’ll be going into heat within the hour._

Phasma appears at the servant’s panel, looking thoroughly rumpled and wearing a modest bedrobe. Under any other circumstance, Kylo would find himself rather astounded at the sight of the usually impeccable woman’s obvious dishevelment. He doesn’t scent anything amiss, but she looks feverish, unwell.

“I’m sorry, my lord. I’ve been ill in bed since assisting her ladyship, and I only just heard…”

Kylo quickly realizes she wasn’t at the ball and therefore likely missed news of the events that transpired there.

“Rey is gone. Do you know where she might be?”

Phasma blinks in surprise. “Gone? _No_ …how?”

“She’s escaped my chambers. Perhaps charmed one of the Omicrons into helping her.” Wrath unfurls in the pit of his stomach. “Has she ever discussed an ally in the palace or in the City? Someone who might assist her?”

“No, my lord. In truth, she keeps very much to herself other than a few meetings with her maid, Rose, and public gatherings, of course…an audience or two with your mother, now and then. But I’ve always kept an eye on them, at your command. And her guards have been warned to alert Mitaka or me of anything untoward they might overhear if you are not present during such meetings.”

He nods. This information is not surprising, and a tiny sliver of worry creeps into his thoughts.

If she tries to run and has someone to help her, she’ll at least have _some_ protection until he finds her. But if she is alone…

He glances again at the box of rubies on her bed. She did not take those, though they are worth many times a fortune. She only took his ruby, a smaller but still valuable item and will be much more easily transacted without drawing attention.

If she intends to leave the planet, she will need transport, and for that she will need to go to some very unsavory people, indeed.

“I would have all of the palace’s guests accounted for. Mitaka can assist after he finishes issuing my orders elsewhere.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Anyone who tries to leave the palace will die this night.”

“Yes, my lord,” Phasma replies coolly despite her high color. 

He stares at the small pile of fripperies he spilled from Rey's vanity drawer, a collection of odd ribbons and scraps of paper and pressed flowers and polished stones littered across the floor.

All the little gifts he’s left on her pillow over the past year and more.

Something horrible and resentful burns like acid inside him and he heads for the Great Hall, unable to look upon the evidence of his folly any longer.

_Oh, when I get my hands on her…_

He can hear the rioting crowds outside, and _this_ is something he can put a stop to immediately, he decides.

The Hall’s massive double doors slam open on a wave of magic he barely needs to summon, and he strides to the top of the steps to survey the streets far below.

The main part of the mob has surged away, leaving a trail of rain-sodden debris and a few flickering torches in its wake. But many people still gather in small groups, bearing torches and shouting and hurtling stones through shop windows. 

She’s out there, somewhere. If she’s had nearly an hour’s head start, she’ll not be in the palace. She could be close to the Scrum already, if she knows the way or has help.

_I’m coming for you, sweetheart._

But his plans for vengeance are forgotten when his Knight rushes up the steps to meet him, panting with exertion.

“…my lord, they’ve found a body…just below…cloaked in red and wearing a masquerade costume.”

_No._

His heart freezes over. Surely he would have felt it, felt _something_ across their bond…

“…a body?”

“Dead, my lord.”

_No._

Two more Knights approach up the steps, moving slowly, bearing something between them, draped in a horribly recognizable scarlet cloak. He cannot see the color of her hair, for it is soaked with rain and matted with mud and filth…and blood.

He sniffs the air only to be met with the scent of rain and death.

Unparalleled darkness crashes into him, tearing a line of black ice down his spine and through his chest and arms and fingers.

“No!”

The single word echoes eerily up to the heavens and down to the bottom of his broken soul.

“It’s not her, my lord.”

Ren looks wildly at the Knight who made the pronouncement and stretches out his hand, black magic pouring from his skin to grasp the man's throat, not with his _actual_ grip, but with something much more frightening. He squeezes empty air, mimicking a chokehold, and it forces his Knight into a kneel from several steps away.

“What did you say?” Ren mutters. His voice is low, shredded, and snarling like a demon's.

“It’s not… _her_ …your lady wife…” the Knight coughs. “But…but someone thinks it is… _was_ …”

The other two lay the body at Kylo’s feet and turn her face up so he can see for himself. Kylo squats down, tilting his head curiously, pulling the rain-soaked, tangled hair aside to reveal the familiar countenance of Lady Bazine, frozen in eternal horror.

Kylo always dismissed Bazine as something of a social climber, but a self-absorbed one. He would not have believed the woman foolish or grasping enough to aid and abet in outright treason. Nor had he trusted the tale Rey told him back in her room. So when he confronted Bazine at the ball, the woman’s own admissions and protestations unexpectedly convicted her. He is rather annoyed she is dead, as he will be unable to question her over the extent of his wife’s duplicity.

“How do you know _they_ think it was her?” Kylo growls. But the answer is right in front of him.

He lifts her bare arm to read the grisly message inscribed into the pale flesh.

_…the gods will die..._

Her other arm carries a message, too.

_…freedom to the Scrums…_

…and on her chest, a crude rendition of Rey’s sigil… _her phoenix…_

But the cloak she wears is most certainly Rey’s; Kylo can still smell her on it. He swipes a gloved finger over the wound on Bazine's chest, and though the corpse is soaked with rain, it is fresh enough for him to divine what he needs when he touches a drop to his tongue.

The taste of common blood he ignores, reading instead a few brief flashes of the woman's gruesome final moments. He rolls it in his mouth, ensuring he's interpreted correctly before spitting it out.

She died almost as badly as what he planned for her. But the _why_ of it...oh, now that is something.

It both terrifies and thrills him.

_Very well, then, mortals. If it is Death you wish to have, then Death you shall receive._

Just then, his other three Knights rush from the Great Hall to inform him what he already knows. Rey is nowhere inside.

“She intends to leave the planet," Kylo tells them. "She’s heading for the Scrum. We will meet her there. And on the way...”

_They may call me what they will. Hades. The Grim Reaper. God of Death._

Some of them wanted his darling Persephone to die. 

Even if she is a treacherous whore, she still belongs to him. And if anyone is going to teach her that particular lesson, then he will be the only one to do it.

Fortunately, they killed the wrong girl, but Kylo is a defender of the Faith and they must learn the price of blood. 

Especially _her_. 

“…let’s let them know we’re coming…”

From his crouch, he plants his center of gravity into the stone underfoot, reminded of the rivers of blood he's spilled down these steps over the years.

_Mine._

He thinks upon the legions of dead he's bought and paid for with his own blood - _mine, all of them_ \- and he fills himself with It, the Darkness, surrendering to that delicious _source_ , flooding his heart with the utter absence of light, sucked from the air and the ground and life itself.

He's practiced this a thousand, thousand times at Church with varying results...but now...now it's so delectably easy to find.

_It's mine. Belongs to me...and this night you all must learn the cost of it._

It hits in shockwaves, pulsing out of him in bursts that radiate outward across the City.

The first wave kills all light in the visible spectrum. Less than half the lights flicker back on seconds later, which is fine. Even those will dim soon enough.

An instant after the first, a second wave hits. This one brings fear. The shadows all around begin to move strangely, too slowly…too _deliberately_ , crawling from darkened corners and crevices between buildings and even from the cracks in the cobblestones to claw and scratch and hiss.

_Mine. Good._

_Now. Scream for me._

It pleases him unduly when the screaming reaches his ears. He smiles.

_You cannot hide from Death._

The third wave…it burns icy-cold.

Within him, a seed of darkness, polished hard and black as the pit of deep space, blooms into raw, untamed power. The deadly flux of energy has nowhere to go but _out_ , and there's no _escape you fools..._

Time has no meaning here. He stands at the epicenter of Hell and lifts his hands, and from them flows enough magic to very nearly rupture the veil between the living and the dead. It's enough to rip a seam of crimson lightning across the blackened sky.

His handiwork lingers for an unnatural length of time and glows, making the skies appear shattered. 

Below, any remaining rioters scatter like ants, their terrified shrieks temporarily obscured under a boom of thunder that shakes the core of the planet itself.

This wave brings pain and blood. Thick and sticky like tar, it hurtles from the heavens to scorch everything it touches with an evil hiss.

Thunder rolls again in a deafening roar and with a sudden, earsplitting crack, the palace steps split cleanly down the middle, all the way to the screaming mortals below.

He lifts a hand and the bloody rain turns to ash, falling like unclean snow to melt and stain everything it touches. 

The scent of brimstone fills the air and Kylo stomps down the steps, intent only on finding her. His Knights follow, and he senses their mingled bewilderment and callous approval over what he's done. He’s beyond caring for anything beyond a singular goal.

_Find her._

They reach the bottom of the steps, and Kylo pauses only long enough to command, “Half of you take the West. Half of you take the East.”

“What would you have us do, Master?”

“Raise Hell,” he growls. “We must leave a lasting impression. If I cannot assure the people’s loyalty with love, then I will do it with fear. Don’t disappoint me. Let's make sure this really _hurts.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I know it’s been a bit longer than usual since my last update. Had some chronic health stuff come up along with a super fun UTI, but hopefully I’m over it. 
> 
> As for the story…
> 
> Only Patty knows how I wrestled with this one. 
> 
> I will admit, originally, I was going to skip ahead to the juicy part and then give you a series of flashbacks over the next few chapters. You know how I love messing with a timeline.
> 
> But for this part I decided to do it kind of chronologically, even though I know the suspense is murdering you. Well. At least two of you. You will just have to trust me. 
> 
> It works better this way. I think. I hope.
> 
> And we can absolutely ratchet up the tension a bit more…heh, heh…
> 
> I know you’ll tell me how you feel about it in the comments. 
> 
> Remember: I really do love you. 
> 
> Also, know this: Love is pain. 
> 
> *evil cackles* 
> 
> *who am I kidding? I'm chuckling nervously*


	30. The Price of Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: If you have triggers, check the tags. Please remember this fic contains murder, death, mayhem…brutal violence, blood and gore, etc. (In case you made it this far and haven’t noticed yet. *winks*)
> 
> BRIEF RETCON: I had to *slightly* modify a few lines at the end of Chapter 28. I HATE retconning, but frankly, I'm surprised I haven't had to do it sooner, what with this wild plot. My apologies - this is the most complicated shit I've ever done, and well...yeah.
> 
>  **CONTENT WARNING:** At the risk of spoiling everybody, the content warning for this chapter is in the END NOTES. Click on the END NOTES to view content warnings that may include spoilers for this chapter. 
> 
> Otherwise, proceed at your own risk.
> 
> I will warn you…this chapter is relentless. There are no breaks in the action, and the chapter itself is long. I thought about cutting parts of it out, and I thought about doing parts of it as flashbacks, but I just couldn’t. 
> 
> …I mean…I _could_ have given ya’ll a tiny bit of a break…but you know how I love torture and pandemonium…xoxoxo...

# Chapter Thirty – The Price of Blood

Her Omicron guides her through the tunnels with far too much ease.

They encounter no opposition, not even a stray guard or a solitary maid. Rey supposes security is most vulnerable now, with everyone in the palace under guard, locked in their rooms under Kylo’s orders, and while she isn’t planning on going anywhere near the guest wings or servants’ quarters to test her theory, she also has a general idea of the number of available sentries; there won’t be enough of them to patrol the tunnels, too, only the main entrances.

This should comfort her, but instead, she finds herself vaguely troubled.

But...if she can find her way out of the palace, she should try to get to Nymeve Street. Rose mentioned the alchemist there, Maz Kanata, is loyal. If Maz is a friend to the Resistance, then she might know where to find Leia.

Perhaps Kanata can help her, and Rey doesn’t have any better ideas.

But first things first.

Against her better judgment, Rey allows mercy to overrule her training. For once, she has no hidden agenda, no strategic maneuvering to execute.

Lady Bazine is somewhere nearby, waiting to die a horrible death, wrongly accused.

_The dungeons._

It’s insane what she’s considering, but the world has gone insane and besides…it will only take minutes.

“Take me to the dungeons, Alpha.”

“Yes, my lady.”

The Omicron changes course and leads her into a well-guarded corridor. Rey can feel curious eyes on them, but nobody questions or tries to halt their progress.

Here the air is dank and musty and stagnant in the way only an oppressive place can be, surrounded by bedrock and hopeless misery, deep under the palace.

They enter a small room Rey guesses is some kind of receiving chamber where prisoners are searched before being locked in their cells, which lie presumably just behind a small portcullis on the other side of the room.

Two Omicrons wait there, still as statues but for their eyes.

Breathing deeply, Rey lifts her chin and commands in her most authoritative voice, “I’m here to issue the release of Lady Bazine. There’s been an error and his lordship cannot rectify the matter personally since he is occupied bringing the City under order.”

The guards evaluate her, and Rey can feel the weight of their suspicion. Her presence here is unprecedented. For a few seconds, they assess her, then glance at each other.

She fights a surge of irritation.

_If I were a man, none would question me._

“His lordship sent me himself,” she snaps impatiently. “Because my blood _is as his_.”

The first Omicron opens his mouth and she neither knows nor cares if he intends to argue.

“Well, don’t keep me waiting! Release her this instant!” Rey injects just the right amount of haughty condescension into her tone, sounding far too much like her husband for her liking. But this does the trick, and the two jump to do her bidding.

The second guard nods to his companion to open the portcullis and disappears inside. A few minutes pass before he brings a nearly hysterical Bazine back with him.

When she spies Rey, the fight seems to leave her and she falls to the dirty stone floor, bawling, “I swear I never did whatever he thinks I did! I’m innocent, I swear!”

The satisfaction at seeing her rival so obviously distraught and sorry for her sins lingers a moment, but Rey can’t drag this out. They are rapidly running out of time.

“Yes,” Rey agrees, “We know you were falsely accused. Come with me, now.”

Thankfully, Bazine doesn’t ask questions, but hurries along, looking thoroughly rumpled and smelling as if she’s in worse shape than Rey.

_Damn, the woman’s almost in heat, like me. Of course she is. Damn._

There’s no way they’ll not draw significant interest with their combined scents – particularly since Bazine is unmated and as the moon waxes to full knot the scent of her heat alone will carry for blocks once they are outside.

Even worse, Rey is nearly in heat, too, and although her scent already mingles with Kylo’s, which should deter any interested Alphas from wanting to mate with her, her ever-warming blood-of-gold is still potent enough to generate unwanted attention.

“Hurry,” Rey whispers the moment they are alone, leading Bazine and the Omicron back to the upper levels of the palace, having memorized their path on the way there.

They need to get to the vendor’s tunnels, which are separate from the ones connected to the royal wing and the dungeons and will lead them outside. They will need to cross through the dining hall to get there, but…

_It’s the only way._

All too soon, they reach the panel to the dining hall, again with a disturbing lack of interference, and Rey feels her first jolt of doubt as a wave of violent heat sweeps into her belly, hard enough to make her moan aloud.

_…need my Alpha…can’t…_

Bazine doesn’t speak. She’s out of breath and shivering.

“Take this,” Rey pants, suddenly sweltering. She pulls off her cloak and only just remembers to snatch Kylo’s ruby from the pocket, tucking it into her cleavage.

Bazine looks at her blankly and Rey gives her a shake. “Is there someone who can help you? Someone who can hide you?”

“Hide me?”

“Until you can get off planet?”

Bazine’s eyes flash with fright when she realizes. “I can’t…go _outside_ …”

“Shut up and listen to me,” Rey hisses, revisited by a nearly overwhelming urge to slap her. “His lordship doesn’t know I’m here. This is your only chance to escape, do you understand?”

Finally, Bazine seems to comprehend. “Why are you helping me?”

_Because I cannot subject another innocent person to die for my sins._

“You were unfairly accused.”

_…she’ll get a quick, clean death. I expect you’ll be begging me for the same before this evening is through._

“We’ll cross the dining hall and head down the corridor to the vendor’s tunnels. They’ll lead us to Market Level, and we can find safety from there. If we are separated…tell someone _you_ are the Lady Persephone. It should be enough to get to your people.” Rey isn’t sure about this last bit, but she blusters through, hoping it won’t come to that. Crossing the dining hall and the main corridor will be the riskiest part. Until they are outside.

But it’s the only way, and the minutes are slipping by.

_…you ever run from me it better be to the afterlife, princess…_

She shoves Kylo’s threats firmly from her mind.

“Our scents together will draw too much attention in the main palace. You will go first. He will take you, then come back for me.” Rey nods to her Omicron who immediately salutes.

“What if…what if _he_ finds me?”

“He won’t, he’s…” Rey breaks off and tries with all her might to focus on their bond. Occasionally over the past months, she’s been able to sense his mood, but right now all she finds are endless, black swells of rage.

Oceans of it.

_Alpha is so furious. So angry. Because of me…oh, gods._

“He’s distracted for now, still focused on stopping the riots. He's in a different part of the palace. I’ll wait here for our guard to return.”

Bazine whispers a vague agreement, but Rey barely hears her as another cramp grinds into her midsection, hard enough to send a trickle of slick down her thighs and make her legs shiver.

_Dammit._

The Omicron and Bazine creep into the dining hall, empty of light and people, and Rey prays to the gods a random patrol doesn’t find her here alone. She doubles over as a wave of fire tears through her middle just as her guard returns.

She slips through the dining hall behind him.

They cross the hall and hurry down the corridor to arrive at the tunnel’s entry soon enough, but Bazine has disappeared, leaving only a whiff of her scent behind.

"My lady, I left her right here, I swear it."

_She ran, the idiot. Dammit to hell. Bazine you stupid fool, I tried to help you and only the gods can now._

_Let it go. Think._

Her mind races. It’s only been about fifteen, maybe twenty minutes since Kylo left her. If she hurries, she can get to Nymeve Street in another ten.

If Maz Kanata can whip up something to impede her heat, maybe tell her how to find Leia, then she can use the ruby to get off planet.

Her Omicron awaits further command with a rather glazed look on his face. He will need to escort her – she can’t go outside unprotected – but outside the palace, he will draw attention, too.

“Take off your helm. And give me your cape.”

As she dons his cape, much heavier than her cloak was and stiflingly warm, she tries to think of some useful bit of knowledge she might exploit to her advantage. But she only recalls an old myth from her childhood proclaiming those who wear the Omicron’s red armor can overcome Death itself and that the legendary warriors have a secret captain who answers to no one.

This brings her no comfort whatsoever, as she is positive nothing would be able to withstand the magic her husband deployed in the Great Hall earlier. And then, later...

_He’s too powerful. He'll destroy everyone in his path._

“You know the way to Nymeve Street?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Good. Then let’s go.”

They make their way through the vendor’s tunnels and here the spaces are eerily quiet and dark, as well. Her heart hammers under her ribs and her arms and legs begin to tremble uncontrollably.

Here and there, she catches faint traces of Bazine’s scent and wonders how the woman is able to make her way through the labyrinthine maze ahead of them.

_Just a little longer. Just a bit more…I can do this. I can do this._

Soon enough, the pale light and odor of the City begins to infiltrate. Gods, the stench is nearly unbearable, and Rey has to force herself to go on, knowing it will only grow worse from here.

Under the overpowering reek, she catches the scent of the storm, wet and charged with an almost ethereal voltage. The dull peal of the city’s warning bells reaches her ears and underlying all of it she detects the dawning frenzy of madness.

They reach an exit gate, and it, too, is unguarded.

 _Surely my luck cannot hold so well,_ Rey worries. _Why are there no guards?_

Despite her growing unease, she follows her Omicron into a series of side streets. So far they've encountered a handful of curious citizens, all of whom appear to be fleeing for cover. 

Storm clouds roll overhead, emitting threatening flashes of thunder and lightning. The rain pours down in buckets, and Rey finds it less than mystical when she's soaked through in minutes.

Her guard leads her through side alleys and avoids the main streets, which is where the rioters seem to have congregated.

But even from the deceptively peaceful back alleys, it sounds as if the entire world just beyond is going insane, looting and rampaging under the inexorable pull of the Knotted Moon and something worse, something supernatural.

_Even if you cannot see it, you know it is there…it’s him._

And here, it seems, is where her luck runs out. For the _second_ time this evening. 

A few men, then a few more spill into their alley, shouting and weaving drunkenly under the moon’s heavy pull.

“My lady, we cannot go this way,” her guard tells her, glancing around for an alternate route.

Her heart sinks when their eyes flit over her with far too much interest.

“My lady, you must run for safety, and I will hold them off. _Please_.” They are already moving her way, and her blood freezes over when her guard draws his sword, brandishing it with expertise.

“Run!” he shouts.

_Thank you, Alpha._

They rush him, roaring as he slashes and cuts them down, his sword a blur against the rain. But there are far too many, and he will soon be overwhelmed.

She doesn’t hesitate.

_Alone._

_I’m alone._

The cobbles are wet and slippery with rain. She reaches the end of the alley and tears her dancing slippers off.

Bare feet are easier, and her feet are tough. Strong as any scavenger bird’s ever were over the blistering desert sands of Jakku.

The rain soaks her clothes and her hair, and her masquerade paint is surely running down her face as she flies in the opposite direction of the palace.

The Omicron’s cape is drenched and heavy, so she loses that next, instantly less encumbered as she tears down the street with renewed lightness.

Overhead, the skies split open and howl with thunder and fury. The rain pounds against her crown of golden flowers until it droops into her face. Angrily, she swipes it away, still running.

She runs until her lungs threaten to burst, until her heart roars and her muscles cramp. 

She runs until she realizes she has no idea where she is, surrounded by buildings and arches and awnings, all dripping wet and looking rather drab.

Someone will help her, surely.

Someone will–

_"There! Up ahead!”_

_“My lady! Rey!”_

_Rose._

“Rose?” She stops and a small bundle barrels into her and nearly knocks her over with a fierce hug.

Finn trots up, just behind her.

“I _thought_ that was you, I thought I could smell…”

“Rose, what are you doing here?” Rey clutches her close, relieved.

“We got Leia to an agent. He’s taking her and Beebee to meet a transport. They’re all right. We were just headed back to the palace when we caught your scent and found your cape and flowers and...”

Finn looks on, a scowl forming on his handsome brow.

“Why are _you_ here, my lady? It isn’t safe.”

“I need to run…and so do you. You cannot go back. He knows. He _knows_ , Rose. About…and he’ll _destroy_ you…” Rey is babbling now, but she shakes Rose’s small shoulders and breathes, “He’s…dangerous…there’s dark magic in him. I’ve never seen…he’ll hurt you…both of you have to come with me. We have to leave this planet.”

Rose’s dark eyes scan Rey’s, seeking and finding confirmation.

Finn grunts, “Leia and Beebee are being taken to Canto Bight. We left them minutes ago. There might still be time to catch up with their transport.”

The Scrum. “Right. Let’s go to Canto Bight, then,” Rey huffs, slightly out of breath and not terribly eager to commence running.

But she doesn’t have time to think about it. She's already gripping Rose’s hand, her bare feet pounding over the hard cobblestones once again.

She doesn’t have room in her body for anything but running, no space in her mind but for one thought.

_He’s coming…_

They run for what surely must be hours, although Rey knows they’ve only gone a dozen or so blocks when they reach a wall. After another block or two, they encounter a gap in the wall and a rickety, zigzagging staircase, which they scurry down to the streets below.

 _Street Level._

By the time they stop again, she can hardly breathe.

It takes her several minutes to catch her breath, and only then does she realize the streets are vacant as the palace was. It should be packed with revelers, but none are in sight. The riots have already moved through this part of town, and anyone with any common sense has either taken refuge or joined in.

Finn jogs ahead, but not too far, glancing down alleyways until he cries out and waves them forward.

Rose squeezes her hand, and they rush to him.

But when she sees who it is they are meeting, and even worse, the tiny shuttle he’s boarding, her heart sinks.

There’s no way they’ll all be able to leave on that shuttle. Possibilities tumble through her head as she calculates their options. Revised options.

None of her choices are good. She would curse the gods, but she needs to keep her head.

They approach, but cautiously. Hux stands on the loading ramp; Leia and Beebee are nowhere to be seen, and Rey assumes they are already tucked aboard, likely in the cargo hold.

But Hux… _shit_. He blinks in shock, then fury at the sight of them. She resists the urge to cower under his palpable wrath.

“What in the ever-knotted hell is this?” he snarls, pale eyes flashing icy rage as he jogs back down the ramp. “I thought I told you I’m not in the business of doing fucking favors?”

Rey blurts, “His lordship already knows they are missing. He knows Leia is fled, and if he gets his hands on Rose or Finn, then all of our identities are compromised.”

“Hera already told me why she had to flee,” Hux says this last with no small degree of accusation. “Careless and utterly foolish,” he spits venomously. “And now _you’re_ here?”

Another man, an Alpha, stands nearby. Rey guesses he is the agent who escorted Leia and Beebee here. He’s tall and older, with short-cropped, fading yellow hair and glacial blue eyes. He would be terribly handsome but for the scars marring his face in jagged vertical lines.

“Unmated? And out on a night like this?” the Alpha murmurs, sniffing rudely in Rose’s direction. "Tut, tut."

“Leave her alone,” Finn growls, bristling, even as Hux barks, “That will _do_ , Vos.”

_Ah. This must be the infamous Dryden Vos._

Vos nods agreeably enough and closes his mouth, though pure insolence boils out of him. Clearly he was going to say more, but Hux’s authority is enough to quiet them all. His intervention is rather ruined, however, when he mutters to Finn, “You ought to have claimed this pretty little baggage while you had the chance and stayed safe and sound back at the palace on this of all evenings.”

Rey opens her mouth to issue a scathing retort, but suddenly every molecule of air around her seizes and falls into terrifying stillness. Everyone stops, paralyzed, before a massive crack of thunder overhead booms and the ground shudders and Rose claps her hands over her ears.

_No. Not the storm…it’s him._

Darkness rolls over them like a smothering blanket, and for a few horrifying seconds, everything goes pitch black.

Even the interior lights of Hux’s shuttle flicker out, and Rey’s heart skips a beat until they flash on again.

Everyone ducks when the second wave hits an instant later.

A wash of dread so strong it threatens to make her faint pours over her skin and lifts the fine hairs at the back of her neck.

And then the shadows…the shadows begin to _move._ Deliberately.

_Oh, gods. He’s coming…_

The ground beneath her feet trembles, and a hideous red scar rends the sky in two with an earsplitting crack and a sinister blast of dark energy. As one, they glance up and Rose clings to Rey.

“Cover your heads!” Hux shouts. Rose pulls her hood over her head and Finn strips his short cape away, flinging it over Rey as hot, tar-like rain begins to fall. They run for cover just as the rain hisses and sputters into the cobbles. Rey’s pulse dances to a single cadence as the group scrambles to crowd beneath the wing of the shuttle.

_It's him. He's coming._

“What is it?” Rose cries.

“He’s _hellraking_ ,” Hux shouts back, and Rey’s heart quakes with fear. 

Hux glowers at her. “He won’t stop until he either destroys the planet or finds _you_.” He emphasizes his point with a harsh flare of nostrils. “There’s no fucking way I’m taking you with me. He’ll hunt you relentlessly…and anyone who helps you.”

Rey’s heart sinks. He's right.

_So. I cannot run._

He looks to Finn and Rose. “We won’t be able to break atmosphere with both of you on board, too. Especially not in this.”

Finn pipes in, arguing, “Rose and I can run for it. We can find another ship.”

“Impossible. He’s just issued a planetwide lockdown. Any ship leaving Coruscant that isn’t First Order will be destroyed. Mine’s the only one that has a chance. And if you’re left behind, his Knights will hunt you down, and he’ll have you spilling your literal guts all over the palace steps by dawn. And all of our secrets with them.”

“He’ll read their thoughts. And blood, too,” Rey agrees, recalling how he’d pulled things from her when he did it earlier.

Hux shakes his head, disgusted, and Rey confirms, “He did it with me, and though he wasn’t able to see everything, it was enough.”

At this, Hux pauses and gives her a curious look.

Vos interrupts, “As lovely as all this is, why don’t we just kill them both and save us all the hassle?”

Rey glares at him. “Who are you again?”

His scarred lip curls up and he sneers, “A very dangerous person.”

Still, as appalling as the horrible Alpha’s argument is, she has no logical counter-argument to offer. If either Finn or Rose is captured, they will become a liability.

Her chest begins to heave when the realization hits.

_He’s coming. He’s coming for me._

Hux’s eyes glint severely as he speculates, “ _Rose_ might have some use to me. I would not have her thrown to the wolves just yet.”

“Take her, then,” Rey commands. “Keep Beebee and Leia. Hurry.” She turns to Finn. “You’ll be less of a priority for him to find. He wants Rose more. For questioning.”

Hux's gaze flashes daggers at Rey. “And what happens when he questions _you_ , my lady?” Vos looks on with undisguised interest.

Rey answers and somehow, she knows. She knows she’ll be able to do it because she _cannot_ fail.

_I am a Golden Blood. A shield._

“He won’t get anything out of me. I swear it. By my Blood.”

Today…she cannot run or hide.

Today she must be a girl who fights.

“You _swear_ it?”

Rey lifts her chin. “I swear.” Before the words have hardly formed in her mind, Hux nods.

In quiet tones, she asks, “What did you mean you might have use for Rose? I would be assured you won’t abandon her or kill her at the first opportunity.” Beside her, Rose stiffens. 

Hux meets the eyes of each of them in turn before answering. “I’ll keep her with me. I’ll say Rose and I were engaged in a secret love affair.” Rose snorts and Finn shakes his head, but Hux keeps talking. “It’s why she is yet unmated to her soldier. She’s been stringing both of us along and finally came to me tonight for a more…permanent commitment.”

“He’ll _never_ believe that,” Rose cries. But they are running out of time.

“Yes, he will,” Rey whispers. But there’s only one way Kylo will buy the tale at face value. Hux will have to claim her. Rose turns ashen when she comprehends.

“Oh.”

Hux looks at Rey and only her, expecting her to find any holes in his story, and fast, silently demanding she works with him to solve the immediate problem. She must abandon emotion.

They’re playing for pieces now, not pawns.

He talks and she listens.

“He trusts me implicitly. And he will not use blood magic on a mated Omega.”

Beside her, Finn’s scent grows hostile, and his jaw clenches. Rey would ask how Hux knows such a thing – about the blood magic – but they have no time, and Hux is still walking her through his alibi.

“I came to Canto Bight tonight to meet Rose, thinking everyone would be distracted by the ball and the moon, only Finn found out and chased after her, which explains his absence, too.”

_It’s my fault. I was careless and now he knows. He knows, and now they’re all at risk…and Rose..._

Rey tries to focus, seeking a counterpoint to Hux’s story, poking for weak spots, looking for cracks.

“Leia’s running makes sense. He already knows we’ve been plotting to prevent an heir. It’s simply a coincidence you and Rose and Finn were missing at the same time, and you…it must be… _absolutely_ convincing when next he meets you…or we are only delaying the inevitable,” Rey warns.

“It's ironclad." He gives her a short nod, then says to the Alpha beside him, "Vos. I expect you to guard her ladyship until her husband comes for her.” He turns to a shell-shocked Rose. “Let’s go, my little flower, we need to get you off this planet. I fear Lord Hades is approaching rather quickly to fetch his runaway wife, and we do not want to be here when he arrives.” As if to confirm Hux’s point, the ground quakes ominously and the scent of brimstone fills the air.

The horrible bloody rain turns to ash, falling like dirty snow from above.

“What of Finn?” She turns to Finn and searches his dark, soulful eyes, trying to find a way to explain. “If my husband catches you, he’ll torture the information out of you, or worse.”

Hux interjects, “Finn was too late to stop us. He tried to kill me. Vos found him just as he succumbed to his fatal injuries.”

“Fatal injuries?”

With lightning speed, Hux draws a blaster from a holster at his side and shoots.

Finn stumbles, clutching at his chest, colliding with Rey in shock. She grapples to keep him upright, but he’s much heavier than she’s expecting. Together, they drop to their knees. 

“No!” Rose shouts. But Hux is faster than a striking snake, snagging her by the hair and clouting the girl unconscious with the butt of his gun.

“What are you doing?” Rey shrieks as he hoists Rose’s limp form over his shoulder.

“What the devil does it look like?” Hux grunts, climbing the boarding ramp and hefting Rose into the passenger seat of his shuttle. “Making sure she doesn’t fucking _clobber_ me while I’m trying to get us back to the _Finalizer_.”

Rey kneels helplessly at Finn's side, mouth agape.

“You never answered my question!” Rey shouts. “How do you intend to use her for your cause?”

His eyes glimmer with cold calculation. “Well. As to that. I expect you’ll be more motivated to resist your husband’s queries and protect my identity if I have a bit of insurance.”

Vos chuckles, and Rey feels like she’s going to throw up. 

A large explosion from several streets away makes them all jump.

With a nasty smirk, Hux settles himself into the pilot’s chair and the ramp begins to close.

“Wait!”

“I’m not sticking around for the fireworks when _he_ gets here," he calls out. "I do seem to recall warning you about weak spots that can be exploited…”

She watches the shuttle lift off and hover low to the ground until it reaches the end of the alley. As it elevates into the sky at rapid speed, a cramp seizes her midsection and she gasps.

And that horrible Alpha, Vos, just stares while Finn wheezes for breath.

“He’s dying. Help him,” she whimpers.

Another explosion hits, much closer.

_He’s coming. He’s coming for me…_

Vos looks to the skies and back to her before turning on his heel to leave. “I don’t think so.”

“Wait!” Rey pleads. “Hux said you should stay with me until…”

“Do you have any idea what your husband will do to me if he finds out we even spoke to each other?”

Tears stream down her face in dirty, itchy rivulets. She still has the ruby pin, set in Mandalorian _Beskar_.

“Then, please. I know who you are. You’re the leader of the Crimson Dawn. You have resources. Help Finn, _hide_ him…I can pay…and…I’ll owe you! A favor. Please…I can draw _him_ away…give you a chance to escape.”

Finn is still breathing, but he’s gone unconscious.

Vos pauses, staring with no small amount of greed at the blood-red gem glinting from Rey’s outstretched palm.

Yet another explosion rips through the air, sending crumbles of dust from nearby buildings down along with the ash falling from the sky.

_Help him._

Vos scrambles close and hauls Finn around his shoulders.

“He’ll be here in minutes…go.”

She passes him the ruby and his scarred face twists into a rueful smile. “You’re a braver soul than I, willing to face down what’s coming for you. If you survive, I’ll take you up on that favor.”

“Only if he lives!” she hollers.

…and as Vos melts into the shadows, she clambers up and once again lifts her skirts to run…

_He’s coming._

She hurries in the opposite trajectory from Vos, knowing her scent will carry for blocks and if Kylo is anywhere near he’ll find her soon enough. The streets are empty of all but crumbling ruin.

She runs until another cramp wracks her and she doubles over, gasping.

_Oh, damn, this hurts._

She turns and jogs to the mouth of an abandoned alleyway, still half-hoping to evade her husband altogether, just as the sky opens up and fiery hell scorches from one end of the horizon to the other. Flaming hail the size of pomegranates rains down, shredding the raggedy laundry lines strung between buildings and sparking up the piles of rubbish into small blazes all around her.

Hux called it hellraking, and it certainly feels like she’s there. In Hell.

She ducks into a darkened doorway to escape the conflagration, only to find she isn’t alone.

Two Alphas huddle just inside, and she catches her breath at the avid interest lighting their eyes.

“Well, well…lookie wha' we have 'ere…” the bigger one mutters. They both smell like cheap liquor and body odor, and Rey is unpleasantly reminded of Unkar Plutt, the rations master back on Jakku. 

The other Alpha sniffs. “Mated. And expensive by the smell of it…you’s in a bad way, Omega,” he growls. “Where’s your mate? Eh?”

The air has gone deadly still. Suddenly she can’t breathe…her heat, it’s sheer _punishing_ torment searing through her. But that Alpha's eyes...they're filled with evil. 

She sinks against the dirty wall behind her, then sidles back into the street.

“Why the hurry? We’re just getting to know each other…and you smell…like you’re in _trouble_ …”

Tears leak from the corners of her eyes. “I am. Terrible trouble.”

“She’s from Gods’ Level, she is. I don’t want no trouble with none from there. Best leave her.”

“Leave her?” the first Alpha grins and strides close, so close his stinky breath hits her nose, even through the brimstone, burning stench. Rey shrinks back. _Not safe._ “I don’t think we’re leaving anything.” He sniffs at her again, rudely flaring his nostrils and gripping her arm in warning.

“Let go of me,” she says, her voice quaking.

With a thunderous bang, a huge fireball followed by a massive plume of smoke rises in the distance.

The ground quakes and the already broken cobblestones crack apart underfoot like broken eggshells, briefly glowing red and warming her bare feet. Rey’s heart plummets when more shadows crawl out of the larger cracks and slither up the sides of buildings.

They’re going into windows and climbing onto rooftops…but the Alpha holding her is too far gone to notice or care, his greedy stare riveted solely on her.

“You dun smell like a Scrum whore. You rilly from Gods’ Lev'? Eh?”

The man’s elocution could use some refinement. Rey is having trouble understanding what he’s saying. She tries to shrug off his grip. 

“Let go of me! Don’t you know who I am?”

“Who you are? You’re about to be my little slut, Omega.” He backhands her across the face, and it stuns her. She’s never been struck in violence in her life. It’s a shock, and instantly humbling.

He’s pawing at her dress and she tries to shrink away, but rough hands wrench her arms back, hurting her. The other one, bolstered by his comrade’s confidence, has apparently had a change of heart.

_He means to hurt me. He means to –_

“…but…I’m the princess…I’m…” she sobs, kicking out, suddenly struggling with all her might. These Alphas, they’re beyond enchantment right now. Leia and her tutors warned her a feral Alpha would be impossible to control.

“Our Lady Persephone is dead. They found her body less than an hour ago. Dressed like you and all cut to pieces and tossed at the foot of the palace steps like a bit of trash. They say Hades went mad and killed her with his bare hands…”

He shoves her rudely to the ground and she tries to crawl away. Unlike the Market District, here the streets are filthy with unspeakable muck. Her feet slip and tangle on the hem of her dress.

Hard fingers dig into her arms and flip her over. One of them holds her still and the other isn’t waiting – he’s already got her skirts rucked up around her thighs when she starts kicking again. Another ringing slap startles her, and her mouth fills with blood. She screams, a desperate, terrified gurgle.

“Well, look at this little whore…perverted bitch are ya?” he grunts, eyeing the scar of Kylo’s bite mark on her upper thigh.

He reaches out to touch it and she screams again, trying to squirm away.

Above her, the one holding her arms mutters concernedly, “…wait…they said Persephone had a bite like that…what if this is her? I don’t wanna mess with no gods…”

The other licks his greasy lips. “Look around, my friend. It’s the end of the world…might as well get wha' we can…while we can.”

He fumbles with the fastenings of his trousers, overtaken by greed. "Now you hold still, or I'm gonna hurt ya. Real bad."

“Please!” she sobs. “Please, don’t!”

Her assailant slaps her again and falls on her, tearing at the front of her gown. The rending of fabric makes an ugly sound, and she renews her struggle to free herself.

_This isn’t real. This cannot be happening._

Of all the horrible things Kylo might have done to her, she realizes this is far, far worse.

She’s twisting, thrashing with all the fight left in her, her arms nearly torn from their sockets as she tries to get close enough to bite when she hears a terrified moan, _“…no…no...godssss...nuuuuhhhh...”_ and another gasping choke as she’s abruptly released. As soon as the grip on her arms slackens, she half rolls to crawl away. But then she freezes, unable to divert her attention as her mind tries to make sense of what she’s seeing.

The other Alpha glances up and to the side, his malicious sneer changing to confusion and then blank horror. His mouth gapes on an empty scream, soundless.

He’s strangling on something and falls back, his entire body lurching as if he's collided with some invisible force, and he's clawing at his throat in panic…

He gags violently when a tendril of dark energy snakes out of his open mouth and splits in two, moving up into his nostrils, in a grotesque facsimile of a swiftly growing vine. His eyes bulge and red tears stream in ghastly rivulets through the dirt on his face, disappearing into his scruffy beard.

More tendrils of black magic wrap around the man’s throat and his body jerks up and away, fully levitated several inches above the ground. He’s gone limp, but he’s staring at her in mute appeal as he briefly hovers, suspended like a hideous marionette for the briefest of moments before the strands of darkness – or whatever it is holding him aloft – grow larger, more substantial, now tentacle-like, expanding and compressing and crushing his flesh before her eyes.

His face turns a gruesome purple…and Rey senses a presence, just beyond…

_Gods help me._

_He’s here._

There. At the edge of the alley. It’s him.

Their eyes meet and for a moment, eternity crashes to a halt.

She’s quivering as if she has a chill she can’t shake…but she isn't cold. No, it’s fire flooding her veins as heat rips down her spine and her thighs cramp in agony.

He moves closer, graceful as a wraith, arm outstretched, open palm turning slowly. The bodies beside her collapse into the scorched cobblestones, still writhing in anguish.

Suddenly he’s right there, right in front of her, dragging her up by the back of her sodden gown and propping her on unsteady legs to stand before him. He's so tall she has to crane her neck, and his scent... _oh, gods..._

When her legs threaten to give out, he simply uses magic to dangle her before him, rather ungracefully.

He holds her there, swaying like a limp, foul-smelling rag, and despite the fact she’s covered in filth and stinking of fear, he cocks his head and inhales, eyes glittering with obsidian menace and something else.

_Lust._

His beautiful dark hair is plastered to his head, soaked with rain and blood, and his face is streaked with dirty wet ashes, but his eyes, they glow with a deadly fire that is not of this world.

“Three days penance,” he bites out, calling over his shoulder to his Knights, who have gathered just beyond.

“My lord?” A confused question emits from one of the helmets.

“Paint the skies with fire. And blood. For three days.”

“No!” Rey gasps. “You cannot!”

“What did you just say to me?” he growls, shaking her so savagely her head lolls back.

_Even the very worst of monsters will think twice before taking your life._

“You cannot…punish innocent people.”

“And just who,” he shakes her again, “do you think is going to stop me?”

Whatever magic he’s using tightens around her, immobilizing her. As terrifying as it is, his eyes are worse. Still, she steels herself and makes a reckless play for justice. “You’ve demonstrated once before a certain willingness…to let me _buy_ what I want.”

He throws back his head and laughs, cruelly.

“You have…the most interesting sense of timing, princess.” His scrutiny turns disdainful and he mutters, “There’s nothing you have that I could…”

“My heart.”

His jaw clenches shut. And he glares. And glares.

But he does not argue.

“Spare the people, and I will give it to you,” she vows into the silence, sure she glimpsed the briefest hint of avarice just now, though it is quickly shuttered. His gaze crawls over her face, lingering on her mouth before dropping to her bosom, nearly exposed by the tear in her gown.

Finally, he murmurs, “Whatever foul, traitorous thing it is that pumps blood through your veins, it is no heart.” His voice is low, threatening. Dangerous.

“…you’ll never know the difference.” She’ll play this game as she’s never played before. “I swear I can make you believe it.”

“You’re in heat.” His lips peel back in disgust, baring his teeth, drawing out the words. “I expect it would be no great difficulty to coax you to do or say just about anything in your condition…”

She rambles recklessly, knowing she almost has him, “I’ll be your slave, I’ll be your…whore…whatever you want.”

“You know I can take whatever I want.” He says it with such soft, unflinching arrogance, she falters. 

She casts her pride away. She doesn’t need pride. She only needs him to change his course. “But you won’t have to take anything…" she breathes. "I’ll give it to you. A gift. Freely given.”

He licks his lips and narrows his eyes. He’s considering it. She clamps her teeth shut, knowing instinctively now is the time to hold her tongue and let him decide.

She’s faced him across a Dejarik board enough times to know when he’s debating on changing his plans midway through a game.

“You would pay the price of blood for these worthless peasants? To me?”

She nods. It’s all she can manage as a wrenching pain sears into her belly and slick drips down her thighs. But her stare does not waver.

She feels it again, that tug of compulsion, sinking into her mind like fangs. But she’s ready for him, now.

Something has shifted, something incrementally small and yet monumental. He blinks, a moment of unsure question crossing his brow.

Of course, he certainly could still try to read her blood and deduce the truth instantly, or pieces of it, as he did earlier…but his men are watching and she wonders if such a move – his divining answers from her blood – might imply a weakness.

It might reveal he’s not the all-knowing, all-mighty deity they think he is.

“Very well,” he purrs. “Three days.” He turns to his Knights and her heart drops to her knees. “The people may keep their lives, but that is all.”

She gasps. He turns back when she implores, “What do you mean _that is all_?”

“You’d be wise to concern yourself with more eminent problems, princess, such as the bargain we just struck.” A malignant grin flashes briefly before all humor slides from his face. He holds her stare and calls out in a voice of iron, “Sound the bells for one hour. So the people may flee. Destroy everything else.”

She opens her mouth, but he compels her. _Silence_.

Her mouth slams shut, and he drags her up again, pulling her so close their noses almost touch. “As for your heart...don’t you recall your lessons, my darling? It was always Eros who preferred to collect the hearts."

He reeks of death and devastation and his eyes burn into hers. His voice deepens into undiluted malice.

"The prophets named me Hades…and he was only ever interested in collecting souls.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNING:** This chapter contains some brutal violence and a rather graphic scene of near rape between a non-main character and a main character. It might be disturbing. The “elements of non-con” tag is in full effect for the next couple of chapters. I will warn again if/when additional content comes up. 
> 
> **Author’s End Note:**
> 
> You have been so patient with me.
> 
> Thank you for indulging my sickening need, nay, compulsion, to torment you all with just a bit more suspense…okay, more than a bit.
> 
> Okay, a metric shit-ton of it.
> 
> I know. I’m a monster.
> 
> I won’t go into a ton of detail because it's over and done with, but something happened last week that sorta took the shine off my fanfiction projects, and I had to take a few days to sort of…get back into the spirit of writing again. I know I promised I would update soon after the last chapter, and well…it seems whenever I make a promise, something comes up to make me a liar.
> 
> So. Next update is in the works, and all I will promise is that I’ll try to get it to you as soon as I can.
> 
> I am both parts nervous as hell about it and excited.
> 
> You all need to know that every time I hit the “post” button on this fic, I am very nearly overcome with the most horrible, exquisite anticipation…


	31. Hellborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT WARNING:** This fic has been tagged for graphic violence, blood and gore, and brutal violence with fantasy elements, among other things. For spoilery warnings, skip to the END NOTES, please.

# Chapter Thirty-One – Hellborn

Blood falls like black rain, mixing with ash and the stink of fear and chaos. Bells clang and peal as people flee with hastily bundled goods and children, running for their lives before his Knights sack the city.

He’s practically drunk on it, on the violence scything through the air in his wake, almost sick with the unchained nightmare he’s loosened to creep between windowpanes and under doorways.

If the shadows swirling around his terrifying form are not indication enough, red drips from his unhelmed head to the toes of his boots, bathing him in death. This night, he has earned the title assigned by the seers on the day of his birth. He has finally become the monster his mother always swore he was.

God of Death.

His heart burns like a hot, hard coal as he trudges back to the palace.

He is… _reborn_.

Baptized in the madness of righteous wrath and unholy power.

Scented of smoke and brimstone and blood, the air anoints itself with that old, familiar stench of death. The shadows belong to him, every shade, every patch of darkness. He paid the price of blood for them, and now they are eternally his.

Master Snoke will be _beyond_ pleased when he learns how quickly Kylo transformed the screams of the living into the vacant stares of the dead, how those voluptuous swells of radiant energy had spilled out of him until he stood at the apex of a whirling maelstrom of destruction. He took it into himself and split the light from it, shucking it away before shaking the foundations of reality.

_Mine._

_I am Death._

_Unmatched._

His Omega follows him placidly enough, although she chokes on the smoke clinging to the humid atmosphere. But he can scent her fear and beneath that the wild tang of heat. He sniffs again, reveling in the desperation so thick he can taste it on his tongue. 

_Also mine._

He would have happily ravaged this place and every soul in it, cast them all into the Pit for what they did...for what they _thought_ they had done…and if…

If they had hurt her?

He doesn’t need to look back to know the animals who attacked her are already weeping from their injuries. Even more gratifying is the endless terror pouring out of them. Kylo drags them behind him on a chain of darkness and magic, uncaring of their moans as their bodies bump and scrape over shattered cobblestones and overflowing gutters.

They’ll keep for now. He’ll stake them to the palace steps himself, and there they can wait for him and penance.

But first…

Even under the stink of pain and turmoil, her scent beguiles him, stretching his self-restraint to the limits of its bounds.

_Her heart…she must be worse off than I thought, to make such a vow._

He is all too aware of the risks a truly desperate person will take in the heat of the moment only to regret it later. Even so, her offer allures him beyond his ability to resist.

The palace looms near, and Omicrons have resumed guard, lining the massive staircase up to the entry doors of the Great Hall. Under the appearance of protection and order, a few citizens linger outside, the fools, though once they catch sight and scent of Kylo, they flee quickly enough. He lifts his arm and hurls a few shadows their way, hurrying them along.

As he reaches the base of the palace steps, Rey whimpers miserably. By the smell of her, she is well into the first stage of heat and without medication or help from him for the first time in her life. She's barefoot and filthy and exhausted.

“I did warn you not to run from me.”

With an utter lack of pity, he begins to climb, suddenly fuming again.

By the time he’d arrived at the Scrum to fetch her, his Knights had circled around to meet him, forming choke points for any who intended to evade their fate, but he was closest when he caught her scent. Then, when her screams had pierced the air and he found her fighting and kicking, trying to bite.

Echoes of rage still pulse through him as he relentlessly drags his prey up the steps.

As promised, Rey follows along obediently if not stoically, and they slowly ascend, avoiding the large, jagged crack where he’d split the solid stone right down the middle, though the progress is painful for her and thus correspondingly for him.

They near the top and she falls, tripping on her hem, panting for breath. He can feel her agony through their bond, and he is _almost_ tempted to infuse a bit of his own strength into her.

With an iron will, he resists the urge to lift her into his arms and carry her the rest of the way. 

_She deserves no such consideration._

She meets his eyes with a touch of pleading and he hardens his heart, clenching his jaw and looking beyond to the creatures who were foolish enough to put their hands on his property.

They writhe weakly on the steps just beyond her, and he stomps down to loom over them with sheer menace. Neither of the scum can speak, for he has them bound and gagged with his very own lovely tendrils of nightmares.

_You’ll be begging soon enough, vermin._

The fright reflected in their eyes is delicious, and no words need to be spoken as he extends his hand to the side to be handed the implements he needs from the Omicron whose sole duty it is to be prepared to assist with such things at a moment’s notice.

Almost instantly, he feels the weight of the tools in his palm, and a flicker of devilish joy whips through him.

_I’ll have your screams ringing through the streets until they can hear you in Canto Bight._

Per his usual routine, Kylo declines any further assistance as he stakes them, one by one, to the altars built into the steps, meticulously ensuring neither can wriggle free even as he makes them as uncomfortable as possible, positioned at a slight decline.

He turns to a nearby Omicron and mutters, “See they are given water and kept alive until I return.”

Knowing his command will be followed, he doesn’t wait for an answer but instead turns to Rey, who watches him with something akin to horror.

“You and I have a more private appointment, do we not, Omega?”

Behind her, a sudden fire crackles across the horizon, making the sky glow orange and red. The bells have stopped their clanging.

Looking down his nose, he smiles, and she shrinks back. He permits himself the small luxury of wrapping a handful of her hair around his gloved fist and forcing her head to turn. For emphasis, he gives her a bit of a shake, tightening his grip when she tries to shrug him off.

 _No_.

She needs to face it, to see what his Knights are about to inflict.

This must be a lesson she never forgets, and so he ensures she has a few minutes to observe the commencement of his beautiful devastation.

“Three days.”

**Ten Months Later –**

Snoke has warned time and again women are creatures of deceit and only to be used for sexual pleasure and breeding and to increase one’s own status, nothing more. So, while Kylo should not be surprised Rey fell so easily into her natural role, he castigates himself daily over how quickly he gravitated into his own self-perpetuated deception, believing her to be different.

The worst is knowing how well his mother played him. Even Kylo can admit she did a truly masterful job of it, though in retrospect the woman’s machinations do not faze him in the least.

Still, it rankles his pride, eating away like poison and sending him into fits of cold fury every time he dwells on it for too long. Which is _often_ and with a near obsession that, until very recently, was only surpassed by his desire to find Rey.

She’s as heartless as Leia Organa ever was. No. She’s worse. She has a heart. Just not for him.

_Not now, nor will she ever._

Which makes the situation all the more humiliating when he considers how perfect she is for him. Everything about her, from the top of her head to her dainty pink toes, is curated precisely to entice and bewitch and beguile.

But behind all the little things that made him fall so wholeheartedly in love with her – from her charming and deplorable lack of airs, to her rustic manners and constant state of mildly chaotic dishevelment and even her bloodthirsty skill on the Dejarik boards, from her sweet temperament to her ferocious devotion to the dead Jedi faith – his mother’s influence reigns from the shadows.

It was Leia Organa’s idea to have her heat-fasted to sweeten the already attractive lure of her prized Golden Blood. 

It was Leia’s idea to trick him into coming for Rey two years ago, and after spending years hunting for the rumored Golden Blood and discreetly sending spies to the likeliest candidates, Kylo never hesitated to leap on the bait when he found her, thinking his years of searching finally paid in full, not to mention the triumph he felt, believing his uncle's wedding to be thwarted.

He isn’t surprised his own mother is capable of such ruthlessness, not really. But even now he’s so very disappointed at discovering the depths of Rey’s willingness to go along with it.

All of it.

Even the losses to the Resistance forces were a carefully contrived sacrifice, and Rey certainly was aware of that on some level. That degree of cold calculation might have impressed him. Once.

Only, he’s been playing against his mother this entire time, and he never knew. Never knew until he found his mother’s hand in an even darker treachery, one that nearly drove him mad as she and Rey worked to prevent him from gaining an heir for nearly a year. The idea of Rey going behind his back and never saying a word only scours salt into the still-open wound.

_…and now I dare not attempt divination, mated as she is, and to me no less. I never should have done it last time._

Even now, he hesitates to read her blood again.

Snoke warned him about that, too, and Kylo did it anyhow.

There’s a price for using blood magic. And on a mated Omega, the price is too steep, though he’d been uncaring of anything at the time.

The problem is simple enough: A mated Omega’s blood is mingled with her Alpha’s, the moment the bond occurs. He didn’t think it would matter if she is mated to _him_ , but there was interference, nonetheless.

Instead of reading anything he couldn’t have discovered elsewise, he’d only managed to give her a glimpse of the depths of his fury and frighten the hell out of her and inspire her to run away.

The night the people call _All Hell’s Eve._

From the ship's helm, one of his Knights murmurs an alert. They are near to planetfall, and Kylo steps forward to view Coruscant.

He insisted Rey remain in the small captain’s cabin when they enter the planet's atmosphere, partly to keep her secure for as long as possible – her and Hope – and partly because the damage done by his Knights is still visible and shocking to look upon, even from many, many miles up.

The Scrum began to rebuild almost immediately after, of course. The people had nowhere else to go, and they were neither trusted nor welcomed to squat in other parts of the City for long.

Unexpectedly, it was Dryden Vos who played a critical role in rebuilding and coordinating the bulk of efforts to rehouse and restructure the populace. While Kylo does not trust the man – he’s positive the gangster has less-than benevolent motives – he allows Vos fairly free reign.

For now.

The Crimson Dawn manages the Scrum with an iron hand, and Vos is a known associate of Hux’s, who ensures the man does not overstep himself.

Besides, Kylo has bigger problems.

His mother is yet to be located, and Kylo hasn't a clue as to where the Resistance might be hiding.

As if the reminder of those traitors conjures her, and in flagrant defiance of his order, Rey appears at his side, watching Coruscant grow larger as their ship approaches.

She wears the outfit he brought for her, a set of form-fitting, long-sleeved clothes meant to be warm and unobtrusive to accommodate deep space travel. Despite the garments’ lack of grace or feminine allure, his mouth waters just slightly at the sight of her lean curves. She’s pulled her hair into a loose horsetail, and from this vantage, he glimpses the shadow of his bite scar on the back of her neck. The sight is too much for him, and he is oddly struck by the awareness he’s rather missed her.

Discomfited by this thought, he glances at Hope, stirring in Rey’s arms. And something quite disturbing rouses in his chest.

 _Hellborn_.

A term for any babe conceived under monumentally disastrous circumstances.

Like _that_ night. All Hell’s Eve.

And though he did almost bring Hell itself down on Coruscant all those months ago, a surge of fondness swells in him at the epithet. Common myth pronounces Hellborns to be extraordinarily lucky as well as clever and wise and well-loved.

 _My little daughter is a Hellborn,_ Kylo reflects, _and her good fortune is assured._ He wonders what visions and prophesies the seers might divine of her future and what the stars might reveal of her fate.

_We shall have her christened as soon as possible. Perhaps at our coronation. Master Snoke will approve._

Of the budding fondness he’s developed, however, Kylo is positive Snoke will thoroughly disapprove. Still, he cannot think of a damned thing to quell the wash of fascination that overcomes him when his tiny daughter blinks awake and looks him straight in the eye.

And then she gurgles.

It’s outrageous. The little sound does not belong in this austere environment, where all is scented with tension and vague hostility. The baby's soft noises are incongruent here in a spacecraft filled with efficient clicks and beeps and the shuffling of six hardened warlords, not to mention Kylo’s own grim figure and Rey’s slightly more diminutive though no less frosty mien.

The babe coos again, and Kylo very nearly smiles before finding himself abruptly horrified and embarrassed of the genuine humor brought forth by such a ridiculous thing as an infant's mewling.

In counterpoint, Kylo deepens his frown, though with some difficulty, since the beguiling scent of his daughter mingles with Rey’s, rendering him uncharacteristically riveted and simultaneously perplexed.

He has no idea about babies or children. It hits him rather boldly he knows very little about any of this.

“…is she _quite_ all right?” Kylo murmurs in his dourest voice.

Rey, sensing his slight agitation, though not the source of it, jounces the child gently in her arms.

“She’s all right,” she mutters with a gentle glance to Hope. “It’s probably the motion of the ship…”

As the ship enters atmosphere, jarring them, Kylo instinctively reaches to steady Rey at his side before pulling back at the last second. He does not miss how she stiffens, and his scowl darkens from stern to thunderous.

She’ll have no wish for him to touch her again, and he perceives _this_ at least is a fair and honest reaction. He made his vow in haste, under a horrible cloud of guilt… _after_ …but she will hold him to it, regardless of the circumstances.

For all the times he’s sworn his word is unimpeachable, she will have double leverage over him if he ever breaches his promise and lays a hand on her without permission.

And the odds of her asking for his touch are as likely as Luke Skywalker surrendering himself to await Kylo’s vengeance on the palace steps, already shackled and begging for a much-deserved Bleeding.

Kylo sighs. It is early evening, and they advance to the City Proper at rapid speed, but even this does not obscure the distinctly violent scar raked through the southern end of the City, beginning about a mile from the palace and radiating in six different directions from there.

He can feel her palpable hatred for his Knights as she also observes the damage, and he is visited by a flicker of defensive annoyance.

“I did order you to remain in the cabin, princess, in the hopes of sparing you this.”

“Sparing me? Surely not.” She lifts her chin, haughty as a queen. “I would look upon the extent of depravity your _mongrels_ imposed on my people.”

It is extensive, indeed. His Knights had taken him at his word and wreaked utter mayhem on the Scrum and much of the Market District, as well.

Three days later, when Coruscant was at the height of anarchy, Kylo emerged from rut and issued the command for the City’s ground forces to restore order. Later, whispered reports of wanton rape and murder reached his ears, delivered by courtiers and a few military personnel who had been in the City. Several of the palace's guests had declined to attend the ball and opted to remain in Canto Bight, instead. They have yet to be found, and Kylo doubts they will be at this point.

But in the weeks following All Hell’s Eve, witnesses and victims were reluctant to come forward for restitution, and he’d been far too busy with Snoke and making an example of the Alphas he’d dragged back to the palace than in meting out any form of justice on the people's behalf, especially if it meant reprimanding anyone actually loyal to him, like his Knights, even if they had been a bit carried away by bloodlust.

His mouth curls into a cruel half-smile as he recalls how brutally he’d held Rey's attackers in suspended animation for weeks, alive but only just, as he patiently flayed them from toe to head.

Every day. Right after breakfast. Just in time to allow their fresh injuries to burn and fester under the scorching afternoon sun.

Once he was sure they had nothing left to give in the way of skin, he bled them as viciously as he could, lingering interminably over the process, leaving only their tongues intact so they might beg him for mercy he would never grant.

Only when they’d been driven mad from the pain did he finally draw and quarter them, not even willing to grant them the _cor vulnere_ – the final blow of a ritual Bleeding – on the off chance they would accidentally cough and rupture their hearts and die prematurely before experiencing the full extent of his retribution.

By the time his butchery was finished, their corpses had been hardly recognizable as human forms, but their example yet remains fixed upon the palace steps for all to see, their bones picked clean by the carrion birds, their souls delivered to an even worse fate. For once he wasn't reminded of his father, and he found himself both relieved and perturbed when he realized it.

But his attention had quickly turned to address the issue of Lady Bazine’s assassination. He had no evidence other than suspicion, but he was sure whoever killed Lor San Tekka killed her, as well. The cuts were too precise for a common murderer, though at first glance it appeared to be the work of a few crazed revolutionaries. No, only a skilled assassin could have done it, someone with a degree of training similar to Kylo’s.

The killer mistook Bazine for Rey, and Kylo was - and still is - furious that someone wanted to slay her so heinously. He'd spent much of his time searching for the woman's killer, to no avail.

Then, Rey had run away again godsdammit, only this time pregnant, and he’d been forced to devote his full attention to finding her. And his heir.

Hope snuffles, and Kylo surreptitiously watches her cooing in her mother’s arms.

And with his most alarming revelation yet, he knows with absolute surety what he did to Rey’s assailants all those months ago will pale in comparison to what he will do to anyone who even thinks of harming this child.

His ship reaches the palace, and he can feel the dread rolling off of Rey; her scent has grown familiarly dusky with distress as they land near the royal wing.

Full evening has arrived, and the lights from the surrounding buildings illuminate them with quiet ambiance; no waving banners or cheering crowds greet them as they did the last time she landed here.

She straightens her spine and carries herself like a princess.

Like a goddess.

_She still has that spirit, at least. I never managed to snuff it out, thank the gods._

This odd thought disturbs him and he forces it away.

He inhales the charged air, forever changed since he unleashed his powers here. A delicious swell of magic buffers him, intoxicating him.

At his side, Rey experiences a similar rush, and she gasps, a soft hiss of breath when she understands.

The seat of his power in more ways than one, now.

He’s raked Hell upon this planet and brought forth legions of shadows here, and now he will be forever connected to this planet’s destiny, just as Snoke is to Mustafar’s and His Holiness, Lord Palpatine, is to Exegol’s.

They move to enter the palace, and Rey interrupts his thoughts with a question. “Am I to be granted my former quarters, my lord? With Hope?”

“You and the child will remain with me under continuous surveillance, since you cannot be trusted otherwise,” he bites out gruffly, offended despite himself over her apparent eagerness to be rid of his company. “I’ve already arranged for your things to be brought to my apartments. I expect they’ve brought accommodations for…” He cannot speak the child’s name aloud for some odd reason, and his throat constricts. “…for our daughter, as well.”

Rey nods, appearing both worried and relieved, and he continues, “We will need to settle on a suitable appellation for her christening. I would have her honored at our coronation. I’m sure the High Priest will be happy to–”

“I will not have our daughter inducted into _any_ religion before she can make the choice for herself!” Rey hisses, striding through the entry doors held open by liveried footmen. “Nor am I willing to subject her to any of your filthy blood rites!”

His temper flares and he follows her sharp pace easily. “You have no choice in the matter, or need I remind you?” he snarls over a touch of guilt. His own mother had him christened as a Jedi before he could even sit upright, and that did not end well at all. But he knows the High Priest will demand Hope’s proper induction into the Church, and, given Snoke’s increasing interest in the royal progeny, he also suspects Snoke will insist on taking a fair hand in the child’s religious upbringing, even before his bargain to turn her over to his master comes to light.

Not for the first time, he wonders if the terms of their arrangement are to be literal or figurative, though he’s not yet mustered the courage to ask his master outright for clarification, too afraid of drawing attention to his own wavering resolve to follow through.

Of course, if the Church takes an interest in sponsoring his child in the Force, this is one thing. But somehow Kylo senses Snoke’s requirement to deliver his firstborn to him to be more literal.

“So I’m to be forced to endure your constant presence? Is this the penalty you’ve devised for my crimes?”

“You will do as you are told,” he reiterates, outpacing her so he can lead the way to his apartments. “Or I will find an alternate caretaker for the child and you may suffer along without her.” The threat is empty, and he has no idea how he might go about enforcing it, but he is sure Mitaka or Phasma will be able to find a solution, if need be.

“You _beast_ ,” Rey growls so ferociously several Omicrons' glances drift to her. It belatedly occurs to Kylo the sentries are now as beholden to her as they are to him since she has given him a royal heir and is now considered to be of royal blood.

“Call me what you will,” he barks. “So long as you know you stand on the very _precipice_ of my grace, and any further misbehavior on your part will result in equally serious consequences.”

She huffs and sweeps past him into his room and Hope begins to fret. He carries Hope’s basket, empty but for the dagger tucked inside, and he tosses it to the floor beside him, hopefully keeping the blade out of Rey’s reach. Kylo is well aware he said she could keep it, but at the moment Rey smells a touch feral and he’d prefer not to wake up with the gods-be-damned thing buried in his chest again.

As if reading his mind, she looks at the basket and then back to him, cocking an eyebrow and snorting with derision. His jaw clenches at the unladylike sound and how it makes him want to eat her alive.

“Well, if you’re so eager to have _someone else_ care for her, then perhaps _you_ ought to have a turn.”

And, much to his very great surprise, she unceremoniously thrusts the fussing child into his hands before rushing for his adjoining washroom.

He gapes, flummoxed as to what he’s supposed to do next and is about to order her back this instant when Hope squints up at him, forehead wrinkling, lips quivering.

_Oh, shit. She’s adorable._

“It’s all right, sweeting, don’t cry,” he croons with complete and utter futility as she works herself into full-blown tears. He opens his mouth to bellow for Rey, when he hears the unmistakable sound of water running.

_Is she…drawing a bath?_

_Oh, for the love of god's bloody knot._

Hope’s cries turn into inconsolable wails. His heart hammers with apprehension and his entire universe shifts on its axis.

_You fool, you fucking fool. Rey was right. You ought to have left them back on Takodana._

Kylo Ren is quite certain whatever is left of the wretched thing - his heart, that is - whatever remnant of it that hasn’t already been demolished by his pitiless, beautiful wife, belongs entirely to his unbelievably _vociferous_ daughter.

There is absolutely no way he is going to be able to let her go. Not to Snoke. Not to anyone.

Ever.

“Mitaka!” he roars. “Attend me at once!”

**All Hell’s Eve, Ten Months Ago –**

He finally loosens his grip on her hair, and she ducks her head from the sight of fire blazing across the horizon.

Slick gushes down her thighs and his scent is so pungent her legs are shaking. She’s never been drunk before, but she imagines this is what it feels like. Everything around her is spinning, and she’s cold and shaky. Nausea wracks her, along with bone-deep cramps and the most awful sensation of foreboding swimming inside her. Like a million little fishes turned loose in her belly.

“…I need…” she moans, uncaring if he humiliates her. “ _Alpha_ …p-p-please…” _I'll be good. I'll be so good._

“If I did not know better, I would suspect you endangered yourself deliberately, just to twist the blade in my back. But then I wonder if you’re clever enough to invent such travesty without my mother's assistance?” he grits out, swinging her into his arms like a sack of wheat.

_Strong Alpha. Mine._

His long, powerful strides cover ground quickly enough, and he bears her along without another word until they reach his apartments.

Unable to help herself, she clings to his shoulders, glancing up as they enter the antechamber to the royal suites and catching sight of the painting on the ceiling. Fiery heat crawls over her skin and she rubs herself against him, hoping to relieve some of the unrelenting pressure.

Abruptly, he sets her on her feet and part of her wonders if he’s tired from rampaging through the city and back. He must be exhausted from all of that, not to mention…what he did to those men…what he _will_ do…

His grip tightens on her arms as he follows her gaze upward. Then his eyes drift back down to land on her ripped bodice, and his nose scrunches with distaste as he scrutinizes her tangled hair and what must surely be a disaster of her masquerade makeup, what with the tears and the drenching rain and everything else.

She’s spattered with blood, and her nails are torn and ragged, her gown sodden with rain and mud and indescribable filth, and underneath it all, she’s panting and squirming against him, soaked through and clutching at him, in full heat.

“Are you all right? Were you harmed?” His voice is flat, too calm.

“Not unduly,” she sniffs. Unsure. “Thank the gods you arrived when you did.”

“That filth put their hands on you. They… _touched_ you…they _looked_ at you.” His breathing has grown heavier, but she cannot read anything from him. “He…saw…my mark…on you, he…”

“You hurt them for it. On the steps of the palace.” _You used magic. Some dark magic. Some evil._ "You will kill them."

“They yet live,” he agrees. “But they will die soon enough.”

“You are angry with me.”

“Oh, yes.” His eyes flash red with acknowledgment and his brow furrows.

“But you saved me. You will not hurt me. You must have some love for me, still. Despite what I have done.”

“That may be true,” he muses, stroking the back of a gloved finger over her cheek. Almost fondly.

His touch leaves a wet smear of blood behind, but at the gentle caress, she sighs with relief.

_Danger will not harm you._

Even as she thinks the thought, his eyes darken, haunted.

“But, I have finally learned the one thing I was meant to learn. Become who I was meant to be. Since the day of my birth.”

“Have you?” she breathes, returning his caress. Her pulse kicks erratically when he slips his dagger from its sheath with a sinister flick of his wrist.

_Wait. What?_

“Indeed I have.”

She doesn’t want to ask. But this…it feels fated, somehow. The words leave her before she can stop them. “What is it you learned? My lord?”

The shadow of a smile ghosts his beautifully sculpted lips, freezing every drop of blood in her veins.

“What I've learned?" he mutters, his eyes reflecting unholy darkness. "Only that the gods have fated me to destroy everything I love…and I’m afraid you are no exception.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNING:** There is a bit of detailed description of Kylo torturing Rey's attackers (from last chapter). I wanted them to have a nice, gruesome end. 
> 
> **Author's End Note:**
> 
> I do need to reiterate to all of you how I am blown away by the response to this fic so far, and I have to say I’m kinda living for it. Also, I’ve read all your comments from last chapter, and I see you, my Gingerroses. Although this fic is solely focused from the central protagonists' POVs and I can’t promise a ton of Gingerrose content, we might get some more in a little bit... 😉
> 
> Okay. The pot is officially boiling, and we are cooking, aren’t we? 
> 
> Remember when I said we would start circling back to the other timeline and things would start converging? I just really hope this comes out the way I have had it planned it in my head…
> 
> Remember when I said I love ya? Well I do. *winks*
> 
> Remember when I said we are going dark? 
> 
> Welp. Welcome to the Dark Side, my friends. We won’t be here forever, but it might be a while yet…so, to slow down the angst train just a TOUCH and show you all I can be merciful, too, I made a BRIEF stopover in Flufftown this chapter. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed. It’s what you all deserve and frankly we are going to need it for what comes next…no time jumps, no new plot lines, no fluff: Next chapter is going to be IT, the NIGHT we’ve been working up to forever, All Hell’s Eve…no holds barred, and I will remind you Kylo isn’t nice and some not nice stuff happens.
> 
> We are just over halfway through, by my rough estimate. One thing I LOVE to do with most of my stories is to play around with the timeline. As we approach the "now" time, events will be revealed more chronologically. I think it will make for some delicious suspense, right up to the very end.
> 
> Until then, throughout the next part of the story, we will drift between the events of All Hell’s Eve and immediate aftermath and Kylo, Rey, and Hope’s arrival on Coruscant. 
> 
> I sincerely thank you for indulging me up to this point. I know you are chomping at the bit for the details of All Hell’s Eve. I can't hold off any longer. 
> 
> It's next chapter, and I SWEAR I will not deprive you of every dark, filthy moment. 
> 
> xoxoxoxo!


	32. The Descent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But were I loved, as I desire to be,  
>  What is there in the great sphere of the earth,  
> And range of evil between death and birth,  
> That I should fear, - if I were loved by thee?_
> 
> Tennyson, **_But Were I Loved_**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author’s Note:**
> 
> *clears throat*
> 
> In my very best Julie Andrews singing voice: _Check the taaaaaggggggsssss._
> 
>  **CONTENT WARNING:** This chapter contains elements of non-consensual sex including coerced sex and extremely dubious consent while under compulsion and maybe a touch of dark magic, okay maybe a few heaping spoonfuls of it, and some more non-con somnophilia. Also, please be advised I haven’t specifically tagged for it, but the sex is on the rough side. 
> 
> Reminder: Kylo is not nice…especially when his whole world is sort of falling apart…note the “Kylo is a Royal Asshole” and “Kylo is an asshole for a lot of it” tags – that’s right, I tagged his assholery TWICE, so don’t say I didn’t warn ya…
> 
> *skulks away*

# 

# Chapter Thirty-Two – The Descent

  


The intensity of his magic fades, but this does not concern him in the least. He can still feel it, pulsing just under the surface, whispering through his veins, waiting for him to call it back.

After the devastation he rained upon Coruscant this night, Master Snoke will not deny him the title of Gravewalker. But for once, Kylo couldn’t care less about his triumphant acquisition of Darkness, nor of his master’s sure approval to follow. His mind is focused on an entirely different matter, lending him a rekindled energy as he drags the matter – currently quivering and panting – through his apartments to his bedchamber.

The dark thrall to annihilate everything in his path is replaced with a far more… _visceral_ craving.

Her scent enthralls him, and he can barely think straight for the turmoil boiling in his chest.

_Punishment first, then interrogation._

She stumbles along beside him, drawing the guards’ concern – Kylo senses this more than sees it – though they are careful not to allow their eyes to drift even a stray millimeter.

It doesn’t matter. Kylo is well aware of what this looks like.

Of what this _is_.

He wonders if anyone will try to stop him, half-hoping someone does so he can unleash some of his escalating temper.

No one budges.

He supposes this is as it should be. His disloyal little wife has yet to give him an heir – a fact that enrages him all over again – but as of now, technically, she is not of royal blood, and so the Omicrons’ allegiances must remain with him alone.

Shadows sweep around him still, and he tightens his grip on his dagger, already drawn, shoving her rudely into his bedchamber with a menacing “We are not to be disturbed under any circumstances” to the Omicron attending the door. The words are more for her sake than the guards' – if they will not interfere when he's openly dragging her to his rooms against her will, then no Omicron will dare intrude beyond the sanctity of a locked bedroom door.

While he was out, a servant thought to come in and light a few candles and set a fire in the hearth. He barely notices. 

With a wisp of dark magic, he slams the door shut and bolts it behind them. 

She’s terrified. He can taste it. _Good_.

Alone together at last, Kylo finally levels his full attention on her. She trembles wretchedly in the throes of heat, and even amidst his black fury, a spark of sympathy tries once again to ignite in his heart.

This only infuriates him more.

None-too-gently, he shoves her against the wall and looms until she cowers, though she still meets his regard with a touch of indignation.

“Finally alone with my mother’s whore,” he sneers, filling his voice with scorn. Instant tears spring into her beautiful eyes, making his blood pound.

“If that is what you wish of me, my lord,” she replies with quiet dignity.

_Ah. So she intends to fulfill one promise, if nothing else._

“What is _this_ nonsense?” He swipes a wet drop from the smudges on her cheek. “Tears? Did you not learn to be ruthless? Did she not teach you to sacrifice your pieces to the slaughter without hesitation? That only the winning of the game matters, and the end result is the only thing of lasting importance?”

“I will do whatever it takes to save lives. If this is the end game you speak of, then it is all I want,” she whispers.

“And so you wish to bargain with your heart? Surely my mother would never approve of such an offering?”

“I suppose you’ll find I have something of myself to offer that is not hers!” Rebellion simmers in her eyes, despite her very precarious position, taking him by surprise.

He hisses a derisive breath through his teeth. No one can be so ignorant. Certainly not any accomplice of his mother's. No, she’ll be very well-trained in the art of misdirection.

Well enough to have deceived him all this time.

“Don’t be naïve. It’s _all_ hers. Surely you don’t believe yourself. Or do you honestly intend to convince me my mother doesn’t have some deeper agenda? If she wanted to prevent me from gaining power, she’d simply send an assassin after me.” She blinks up at him, suddenly doubtful, and he presses his point. “My mother never cares to spare the life of anyone unless it satisfies her own itinerary. Has it never occurred to you to question it?”

_How can she not see it?_

Rey blinks again and retorts, “I’m sure you _would_ say that, given your intentions to reinstate the Old Laws and bring back the Lottery and–”

“You little fool. This has nothing to do with the gods’-knotted Lottery. She’s after a much bigger prize.”

_Just what, exactly, might be something for us to worry about later._

But Rey only stares at him, disbelieving, until her glance drifts to the blade in his hand.

“There’s no need for…that.” She nods at his dagger, and he cocks an eyebrow, prompting her to elaborate. “I’ll…I’ll follow through on my side of our bargain.”

“Ah. Yes, of course. Our _bargain_ ,” he drawls. “The one where you play the whore for me, and I spare the lives of your precious peasants? Are you so eager to proceed, then?”

_As if I have any intention of following through on an agreement with the likes of you. I’d sooner trust a serpent._

She flinches as he caresses her cheek with the edge of his dagger, softly, slowly, not pressing nearly hard enough to draw blood, though he can smell her mix of panic and instant, unwilling desire.

“I warned you.” He infuses his voice with deceptive mildness. Even with every shadow in the Underworld clamoring for freedom, fighting to break through the veil, urging him to unleash and revel in his baser urges without restraint, he is captivated. “I warned you, and _still_ you ran.”

She swallows and she’s shaking so desperately, he isn’t sure how she’s able to hold herself upright. He edges closer until it cannot be possible for her not to feel the heat of him, tugging off a glove with his teeth so he can touch her barehanded. His scent must be close to torture for her in her current condition. He drags the edge of his blade over his thumb and devours her expression hungrily, watching naked lust war with dread on her face at the scent of his blood.

Beneath the disaster of her masquerade paint and streaks of soot, her eyes plead into his, shining with such yearning, he finds himself wishing to linger over it for a while.

“Does it hurt?” he murmurs.

It’s never been easier to weave a few threads of compulsion between them, to force her into stillness, holding her in a near-hypnotic state as he brushes his bloody thumb over the plush pink of her bottom lip.

_No. Not yet. Don’t move._

When he can no longer tolerate the tension, he nods permission, “Go on, then,” and observes in fascination as the dainty tip of her tongue flicks out to pull the taste of him into her mouth.

Connected as they are, the rush of bliss flooding her belly rocks into his own consciousness, and he braces a fist against the wall, next to her head.

He cannot look at it – her pleasure – and so his attention drifts down, taking in the soft swell of her breast in the pale candlelight. He admires a pert, rosy nipple, perfect and beautiful like the rest of her, and he steels himself, vividly reminded that the only reason her naked breast is on display is because her gown was ripped by another Alpha who was on the brink of violating her.

She’s panting, cheeks flushed, and the wanton need of her heat pounds against his resistance like a surging ocean tide. His jaw clenches against her scent, now so potent despite the stench of filth and blood and death all over her, it makes his mouth water. It sickens him how easily he rouses to her, at the compellingly familiar rush of protectiveness swelling through their bond.

Across _both_ of their bonds.

Her sweet scent is poison in his veins, her soft skin an allure that only reminds him of what can never be his.

She’s a drug. Destructive and utterly ruinous. Seductive. Deadly.

And he’s addicted.

It’s an open wound he can dig his fist into, agitating the hurt until he’s mad with it, and here, on the edge of sanity, is where he finds his greatest strength, hovering at the boundary where no others are willing to stray. _This_ is where one finds the true nature of the Dark Side.

It belongs to him now.

And he belongs to the Darkness. As will she.

“My mother made you her little sacrificial lamb, didn’t she? I suspect she dearly hoped I would destroy you, though I know not why. But I think perhaps she knows my nature better than anyone else alive. After all, I certainly took the bait. Quite willingly,” he muses. 

He licks his lips and she mirrors the movement, making hers shine in the low lighting.

“Does it hurt?” he asks again.

The question is more rhetorical than anything. It's perfectly obvious she's in some pain, twitching and moaning against him, her small hands clutching futilely against the unforgiving breastplate covering his chest. Some detached part of his brain speculates if she’s aware how close he is to taking her here and now, just like this.

No. That would be far too easy.

“You swore you’d make me believe…I would hear you say it.”

Without hesitation she says, “I love you.”

He hums and considers her for a long moment. “That wasn’t terribly convincing.”

“…it’s true. I swear it.”

“You lie,” he replies with soft assurance. “If any man ever knew how utterly unlovable he is, it’s me. It was the very first lesson my mother ever deigned to teach, and the only one that ever rang true.”

“Ben, if you would just–”

“Do _not!_ ” he barks, furious at the sound of _that_ name on her tongue. His eyes burn with sudden rage and flecks of spittle fly from his mouth, making her wince. “I will _not_ hear that name again. And I will not be convinced of an impossible truth by the likes of you.”

“…but…you as much as admitted you love me, too!” she cries.

“Love you?” His astonishment has no bounds, disbelief stretching across his vocal cords until his voice breaks. “ _Love?_ My mother’s creature speaks to me of love in the same breath as admitting her treachery? What spectacular irony. I am sorry to find myself more like my father than I realized.”

He grips her throat and squeezes until she chokes a little and clings to his wrist with both hands.

“Do you have any _fucking_ idea what I’ve gone through to save you? _For this?_ For _naught_?” The past month in Church haunts him, memories of unending bleeding and penitence still fresh and sore under the excruciating weight of Snoke’s recriminations and the ever-burgeoning threat of failure hanging over his head. “Have you any _clue_ what torments I’ve endured for you?” He snags a handful of hair and forces her to look at him. “To spare you a bit of pain and bloodshed? Do you truly not understand the price that must be paid to hold my throne?”

Even in the pale light, he can see the color drain from her face at this last.

Easing his grip, he grunts, “I’m not sure I’m interested in your heart anymore.”

“But what of our bargain? You promised!”

He shrugs. “Not strictly speaking,” he counters coolly, although fiery greed burns under his ribs.

_My heart…I will give it to you..._

If ever he’s lusted after one thing it would be this. Everyone knows a gift freely given can never be turned against the one to whom it has been gifted.

Except this is no gift. She meant it as a trade. To save her precious peasants' lives.

Not freely given. Which rather sours the offer, even if made in good faith.

If he cannot ascend to her level of moral superiority, he’ll just have to drag her down into hell with him, instead.

None of it matters anyhow. Not now.

It never did.

Thunder crashes outside.

“I _am_ sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” he bites. “For what? Your never-ending betrayals, of which I’m sure I’ve only touched the surface? Or sorry you were caught?” She shakes her head and opens her mouth, but he cuts her off, his anger building momentum again. “Sorry for running straight into the most dangerous scenario imaginable? Sorry because I was forced to chase you through the streets? You could have been – you know we found Lady Bazine’s body? Wearing your cloak and cut to ribbons. I thought she was you. Thought you were fucking _dead_.”

Lightning crackles, briefly filling the room with electric light.

“Or are you sorry I came for you?” he croons. “In the filthiest hole in the city, with the vilest scum to be found mere seconds away from raping you? In the fucking Scrum?” He gives her a demanding shake, and she whimpers. “Should I have waited and let them finish? Is _that_ why you’re sorry?”

“…n-no…”

Roughly, he spins her around, smashing her against the wall. It’s easier this way. So he doesn’t have to look at the lies.

“You have yet to begin to understand sorry.”

All it takes are a few flicks of his dagger before her gown is ripped cleanly down the back to reveal smooth white skin, pale in the watery light flashing through the storm raging outside. The shredded fabric hangs from the crooks of her elbows, but she cannot move, braced against the wall as she is.

“And what of the people?” Even clearly distraught and hurting, she’s persistent, dammit. 

“Fuck them. You have bigger problems, or need I remind you?”

“But…but…”

He strokes a gloved finger over the arch of her lower back, lingering over the intriguing little dimples there before cupping the soft roundness of her hip. He holds himself motionless, cautious. Because the point he is trying to make is rapidly unraveling.

She argues, though muffled, “I know you still care about me, and if you would just let me explain…”

“The only thing I care about anymore is finishing what my grandfather started.”

At this, she bristles. “Well, in that case, I don’t want any part of your depraved plans!”

With a flare of temper and a violent thrust, he buries his blade into the wall next to her head, making her squeak with alarm. Grabbing each side of her sagging gown, he wrenches it down her arms and drops it to pool at her feet. He can see slick shining on her thighs and his breathing quickens at the heady scent.

“Your consent is not required. I only need one thing from you, and I assure you it isn’t permission.” To prove his words true, he reaches around and cups a gloved hand between her legs, pushing a thumb into her impossibly slick flesh and pressing his leg into the cleft of her buttocks, rubbing just _so_ until she rides between his armor-clad thigh and his hand. As he knew she would, she crumbles in a handful of seconds. She’s so sensitized from her heat it only takes a few strokes to have her falling apart and sobbing.

“You see what a good little whore you are?” he breathes into the swollen gland at the side of her neck, indifferent to how he’s crushing his armor against her spine.

Much to his consternation, she catches a second wind and snaps, “If you don’t intend to keep our bargain, then don't call me a _whore_. I have a name.”

“You needn’t know your name for this next part, only mine.” He presses her back into the wall. “Since you seem so hell-bent on bargaining with me, and in light of your perfidy, your treason, and your utter untrustworthy behavior, I shall offer you some revised terms,” he intones quietly against his marks on the back of her neck, weighting the emphasis of his words with cold severity.

“Terms?”

“From this point forth you no longer serve my mother, my uncle, or the Resistance. In any capacity. You are nothing. You come from nowhere, and I care not for any part of you, save for what I need to achieve my ends. You have no name, no titles save for those that designate you as mine. You have no homeworld, no material possessions. You have no rights or power. You will not eat, sleep, or bathe unless I allow it. You will not speak unless I ask you a direct question or grant you permission. You will serve me in public, flawlessly, without any indication of discord in this house. And in private you will serve me as well, without reservation.”

Thunder crashes again, rattling the windows, followed by another strike of lightning, so close to the palace he can feel the sinister voltage buzzing in the atmosphere.

“If you serve me well, I might reconsider putting you to death once I’ve finished with you. But for now, you have no purpose other than to give me whatever I desire, the very instant I demand it, starting with an heir to secure my throne. I care not if it humiliates you, debases you, or hurts you. Your sole function in this life is to please me. Meet these conditions willingly and I will allow you to keep your life and remain under my protection when my mother inevitably sends her minions to assassinate you for your failure.”

“…and if I’m unwilling?”

“You won’t be,” he vows hoarsely, pushing a heavy tendril of compulsion into their bond until her eyelids flutter closed and she melts bonelessly in his arms.

Abruptly he withdraws, and she sinks to the floor, no longer supported by him.

He sheds his other glove and sets it on his dressing table.

Blood crusts around his collar and his tunic sticks to his skin. He can tell by its scent the blood is neither his nor hers. Beyond that, he has no idea how it got there or whose it might be. Nor does he care.

Even now, he’s too aware of her, how she’s curled into a ball of agony, sobbing weakly on the expensive carpet, covered in filth and unspeakable grime from the worst part of the city, her hair snarled and caked with dirt. The escalating pheromones and insistent biological demands of heat rampaging through her body tugs at his willpower, but he resists.

Well. He tries.

He moves close and gives her a shoulder a prod with the toe of his boot, rolling her aside so he can see her face.

She’s nearly incoherent with misery.

He considers her dispassionately for several long minutes, drawing it out for bitter spite if nothing else, before he crouches, propping his elbows on his knees. She looks up with such eagerness it would shatter his heart if the damned thing weren’t already ruined. 

“I will have your compliance,” he purrs. “You can give it to me, or I can take it. I promise if you make me take it, I will not be kind. I will not be kind either way, but I confess I’m rather hoping you’ll put up a bit of a fight.”

Beneath the layers of soot and grime and smudged face paint, she blanches with the dawning realization he has no intention of being merciful. 

He stands again and yanks his dagger out of the wall, leaving her whining unintelligibly in a pitiful huddle. “I’ll have you with child by morning. And after you give me my heir, I’ll collar you myself. At my coronation.”

After removing his armor, he strips his tunic, tossing it to the other side of the room. He would have the foul stink as far from him as possible. She groans at the sight of him, or maybe she’s trying to argue. Either way, she can’t speak.

Which is fine.

A throbbing, turgid pain sears through their bond now, burning dully like a hot knife buried in his gut, twisting relentless, angry waves up his spine and down his thighs. He has endless practice enduring physical punishment, and if he’s hurting this much, he can only imagine how grueling this must be for her.

It fuels him like nothing else.

  


Her heat is rapidly evolving into something incendiary, and she knows she will soon be incapacitated. She must accept the truth. She cannot stop what's coming.

For now, he’s toying with her, like a cat with a mouse. He won’t stop. He’ll keep going until there’s nothing left, not a scrap. The abbot back on Jakku had a horrid old mouser that liked to play with its food before devouring it…and right now Kylo reminds her very strongly of that cat.

There are dark forces at work here, too, and he’s already using compulsion again like he did earlier at the ball.

Danger might be upon her now, staring her down, poised to strike, but he will not harm her until he gets what he wants.

So she must be clever.

Even for a smart girl, a special girl with priceless blood in her veins, losing is sometimes inevitable.

San Tekka taught her that.

But, he also taught her how to lose, to go down fighting. And by the gods, she will.

She recalls the horrible aftermath of swallowing Hux’s potion.

Kylo tried everything, _everything_ he could to barrel through their bond and reach her then. But she blocked him, focused like never before. But not on the light. Not that day.

She found something else then, a cold seed of darkness she never knew was there. It had called her, and she did not resist. She clung to it and stroked the smooth, opaque surface and put the whole of her will into holding it.

If she could do it then, she will do it now when the stakes are so much higher.

No more running.

She just needs to find it again.

Preferably, before he tries to read her blood. Hux seemed skeptical he would do that, but he already did it once tonight.

_Every piece of yourself will be disbursed, and most of that to him. The physical part will be easiest, and it will take courage even then._

So she scavenges the bare fragments of herself that cannot be lost, the oddments of personality and character that make her Rey. She scrapes them up and wraps them tightly in a bundle in her heart and there she buries them next to the very darkest secrets she must protect above all else. There they will be safe, her secrets. And theirs. Rose’s complicity, and Finn’s, too. There she locks away her knowledge of Hux’s identity and especially her deepest betrayal of the night she swallowed that vile potion, a hopelessly inequitable trade.

She sets aside the terrible, terrible loneliness she’s lived with since her earliest memories and the deep ache of never being enough. Her parents sent her away when she should have died with them in that First Order bombing. Sometimes she wonders if they knew what kind of life they were sending her into and why they didn’t fight harder to be with her–

She packs away the eager girl who once ran barefoot over the scorching sands of Jakku to the shabby trading post, hungry for more than food, always hungry, and the adolescent who craved the love of parents she would never know. She locks deep in her heart the countless nights spent starved for a family, for belonging, begging to gods who never answered her aching prayers for a mother of her own. Even her greatest enemy had one, a mother, and it was all so brutally unfair. 

And then she agreed to marry _him_ , her enemy, and she plotted his ruin alongside his own mother and it never bothered her until she met him. She shuts it all away, buries the woman she grew to be, who loves her husband and adores confounding him even more, the wife who occasionally wears mismatched stockings on purpose to see if he notices, and he always does. The idea of someone as magnificent as him noticing such things secretly thrills her.

But he’ll never know how her toes still curl in her slippers every time he teases her or kisses her or plays with her hair. Or the way her belly flutters at the sight of his broad shoulders or his handsome dark head tilted to hear a snippet of conversation or bent in concentration over the Dejarik board. Or the way his beautiful amber eyes smolder into hers sometimes and how it makes her head go empty of every thought but the way his mouth tastes when she kisses him.

He can’t have it.

He can’t have the knowledge that every time he’s won a game of Dejarik against her it’s because she lost on purpose. Usually when he’s gone especially quiet and moody after spending a long day in Church and seems to need a reason to smile.

Nor can he know he’s had her heart since the beginning. Maybe even since _before_ that day he showed her the ice room and gave her that lovely fur coat and ice cream at dinner every night for a month. Maybe even since before he kissed her under the painted ceiling in the antechamber that first time.

This realization threatens her concentration, but she is strong. Stronger than she ever knew.

_I can do this._

Maybe it only occurs to her just now, how much she loves him, but she knows it has been true. For a long while. She tucks this into a sacred little corner of her heart. Whatever comes next, there will be no place for this particular secret to ever see the light of day.

Because if he ever finds it, she knows he will destroy her.

These things are hers, and she will lock them away. It takes less than seconds.

All the rest of it she’ll let him have.

And by the time she realizes the price is still too high, it is already far too late.

_There is no chaos, there is harmony._

_I have nothing. I am alone._

_So be it._

“I…won’t fight you,” she chokes out, silently begging him to end her suffering. He can have whatever he wants, so long as he makes this intolerable pain go away. 

He does not trust her. Nor will he ever again.

It does not matter. 

“Get off the floor,” he commands.

Through a haze of agony, she scrambles to stand up, and he prowls close. A strange breeze wafts through the room, making the light flutter oddly, just like earlier in the ballroom. But even the palpable supernatural energy snapping through the air is not enough to tear the main portion of her attention from the ravaging demand of heat searing though her middle and making the scent glands at her neck and inner thighs pulse and itch.

_This is torture. Please help me, Alpha. Please._

His head tilts in query and he sets his hand over her heart. Slick floods down her legs at the warmth of his touch.

"Say it again. What you said earlier."

"I...I love you."

He shakes his head. "I still don't believe you." He taps a long, elegant finger against her breastbone. “Who owns this?”

She sniffs, “You do.”

“And where are you from?”

“…n-nowhere…”

“And what is your name?”

“…no one…”

“And what are you?”

“…nothing…”

“No.” He shakes his head in disagreement, and she blinks in confusion. “Tonight, you’ll be my whore. Though we’ll need to undo quite a bit of my mother’s work on you, I suppose. Since you serve _me_ now.” With a slow, purposeful movement, he bends close and nuzzles her gland and she groans when a spurt of slick drips down her leg.

His naked chest is inches away, and all she wants is to brush her fingertips over the lovely contours of warm, hard muscle she’s become so very well acquainted with since their wedding day. She knows he’s as aroused as she is – she can smell it – but she cannot understand why or how he’s able to resist her.

Any other Alpha would be gnawing his own arm off to get to her by now, especially in the fevered state she’s in.

A long finger tilts her chin up. She shivers when his upper lip curls back and he spits, “You stink like a back-alley prostitute. I have no intention of letting you near my bed while you reek of other men. Go to the washroom and scrub yourself clean. If I am unsatisfied with the job you make of it, I’ll do it myself, and I assure you, despite your heat, you don’t want me touching you just yet. I’m not entirely sure I’ll be able to refrain from wringing that pretty little neck of yours.”

Unsure if she’s supposed to acquiesce verbally, she bows her head and moves to follow his broad shoulders, though cramps grind from her belly to her thighs until she gasps, doubling over with nausea and pain.

He turns and cocks his head, unmistakably commanding as he waves her into the adjoining washroom. She hurries.

She bathes as efficiently as she can, scrubbing until her overly sensitized skin is pink and raw, focused only on hastening back, so he can get started on his promise to get her pregnant by morning. She knows she should be troubled by this wish; another pregnancy may well draw Hux’s ire, if not Leia’s.

But he said he’ll keep her protected, and she’s got nowhere to else to turn.

By the time she’s finished, every inch of her is flushed and shaking, and the entirety of her mind is swamped with a single thought.

_Be good. Be good for him, and he’ll help you._

The unrelenting heat has become a frantic, living thing burning under her skin.

For now, he wants her clean and she’s clean, although her hair is rather tangled.

Kylo clucks his tongue in disapproval when she emerges from his washroom.

“Apparently my mother left a few gaping holes in your education,” he scolds. “Don’t you know a convincing whore must always be pretty?” But his voice is low and husky, and she knows he won’t be able to hold off much longer. She can smell how badly he wants her, and it sends an involuntary gush of slick dribbling to her knees.

He’s seated next to the now roaring fire as if on his throne, slouched, knees spread invitingly. The flames roaring from the hearth are so warm she can feel them from across the room and see a faint sheen of sweat on his chest. While she was washing, he evidently took the time to make use of the washbasin at his dressing table, for his hair is slicked back, and his face and neck have been hastily scrubbed of the worst of the blood and gore from the night’s… _hellraking_. He still wears his heavy leather trousers, though his boots are off, and he sips from a goblet. His other hand spins his dagger into the arm of his chair, idly , almost unconsciously, as if toying with the thing is secondary to his plans to put the blade to use.

His eyes glitter dark with a now familiar and terrifying supernatural light.

“We need to make sure you’re not going to betray me again,” he warns cryptically. “So you’re going to be spending some time…with me. In a very unpleasant place.”

Her pulse begins to thud, and she anxiously wonders what he means. His dagger flashes again and the half the candles flicker out when a stark thunderclap just outside seems to shake the walls.

“You smell quite…in need. Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” she answers truthfully.

“Good.”

He crooks his finger and she approaches with caution, a fresh surge of humiliation welling into tears when he mutters, “On your knees.”

She crouches naked before him and meets his arrogant stare.

_Please. Please don’t make me wait. I’ll do anything. Anything you fucking want, just please..._

“I’ve taken many souls, but never a heart. I’m not sure they’re worth the trouble. Your soul, however, will be quite a satisfactory addition to my collection. I’ve amassed a rather extensive assortment of them. As I’m sure you know by now.”

As if to punctuate this remark, the remaining candles snuff out and the firelight dims.

"Say it."

"I love you," she breathes.

"I don't think so."

A wave of dread thrums through her when the walls begin to move. Last time this happened, he told her it was a nightmare.

Shadows drift up from the floor and creep so close they almost touch her, and she knows if they do she’ll die.

_Look at me._

But the command is unnecessary; she cannot move. She's frozen and he’s pulling her in, mesmerizing her, his black scrutiny swimming with shadows and death and unbound suffering. 

_Look at my eyes._

A horrible cold something slithers over her ankle and she yelps at the icy contact. Goosebumps break over her arms and down her spine and she cannot swipe them away. He’s locked her in place, and she can’t move unless he wills it.

As if to prove his point he demands, “Give me your hand.”

Shockwaves of compulsion batter against her consciousness and she lifts her hand to his like a puppet on a string. He guides his dagger into her loose grip, and she feels the gut-churning sensation of his blade slice a wicked gash into the meat of his forearm, dripping blood all over his arm and thigh and the carpet.

An echo of his pain lances through their bond and she gasps at the sting.

“Clean that up.”

The scent of blood is too irresistible and she bends close until her face nearly brushes the rough leather of his trousers. His blood is right _there_ and she moistens her lips and shuffles closer, shivering and moaning until he’s less than an inch from her nose.

The scent of it – his blood – beguiles her. She _wants_ it, lusts after it with every dark corner of her soul, though she knows she shouldn't. It's so wrong, what they're doing. She casts her dignity aside, aware of his intent to humiliate her however possible.

She doesn’t care anymore.

Her tongue touches the sticky wetness dripping down the grimy leather covering his thigh, and she licks. But the luscious dark taste of him mixes with other, awful things. Other people’s blood. Those horrible Alphas who tried to hurt her. And filth from the streets. And Zeus knows what else.

She gags a bit and a brutal fist pulls at her hair.

“Disgusting,” he mutters through his teeth, searching her face for signs of mutiny. “But eager to please. That’s a good start. It must be why my mother chose you.”

Hot tears of shame threaten to overwhelm her.

“You’ll never be a proper Jedi with this audacious taste for blood you’ve acquired.” He smears his bloody forearm against either side of her neck, over her scent glands. 

_He’s marking me with it,_ she realizes, and the gesture reminds her disconcertingly of her own training, when she learned to do virtually the same thing to enchant an Alpha.

_You think to use blood magic to bend me to your will?_

The old question crosses her mind and she cannot dislodge it. Was it blood magic she’s been using all this time? No.

That’s impossible.

She isn't sure if she should be troubled by the act – a clear sacrilege – or even worse, horrified by how much she likes it.

Incomprehensible power flashes in his gaze and he murmurs, “You still intend me to have your heart?”

A tear slides down her face, but it doesn’t matter.

Everything fades but him and her connection to him.

“Yes, Alpha.”

Even more frightened than she’s ever been in her life, she cannot help her fascination as he extends his arm out and to the side, dripping scarlet. He whispers a few unintelligible words and several shadows detach themselves from the wall and move to the open wound.

“What is it?” she breathes, watching as the darkness swirls and claws and drags at his injured flesh until black pulses in his veins and his eyes shine briefly red. The cut on his arm disappears and she cries out, a wordless exclamation, at the sight of his unmarked skin. As if it never happened.

Something ice-cold clasps around her throat and she can feel it feeding on her, malignant and evil and _wrong_ , brushing against the blood he smeared there, rasping like a cold tongue. Fear threatens to render her unconscious when his skull briefly glows bone-white under his skin and lightning strikes close enough to rattle the windows.

This is the very darkest of magics, she perceives, whining wordlessly for him to make it stop.

“Shhhh…” he hushes, in a near trance-like state.

Another tear slips free, so relieved is she when the invisible compression ceases, releasing her. She is unsure if she can hold herself upright much longer. What with her heat and proximity to the fire in the hearth, she should be burning up, but she is chilled and shivering as if she’s been in the ice room far below the palace.

“Go lie on the bed and wait for me,” he orders dispassionately.

_You should offer yourself to me properly now. Like a good little whore._

She can hear the old words over their bond as if he spoke them aloud. Perhaps he did, and she’s just disoriented.

Sinking back, she crawls to the bed without further instruction and feels it, something primitive flaring behind his towering fury.

It’s victory.

More tears fall but she climbs onto the bed and lies face-down across the covers. It’s only minutes, but it seems like hours before she feels him moving across the room. She listens intently for the soft sounds of him disrobing the rest of the way, but all she hears is the disturbing hiss of the shadows crawling over the walls and ceiling.

_What is it? What is he doing?_

Every inch of her skin sings when the hot grip around her ankle drags her closer to the edge of the bed, when hard fingers pull her hips into rather lewd position for a vigorous rutting, spreading her knees with a rude shove to expose her to his view.

When he sweeps the tip of his erection between her legs, she wails into the mattress, unable to help herself.

He pauses, and she pants for breath, wildly trying to understand why he’s stopping.

“Did you have something to say?”

“…no…” she sobs, nearly biting off her tongue when the scalding hot length of him slams home before she’s ready.

He shoves her head into the mattress and pins her there.

“Then shut up.”

This is no soft seduction. True, her body is slick from her heat, but she’s beyond sensitive and he’s so much bigger and not bothering to soften his blows. It hurts, how violently he’s taking her. His touch has never been so devoid of gentleness as he foregoes the usual prelude of soft caresses and gentle kissing in exchange for the base rudiments of mating.

Still, primal instinct takes over and she arches her spine and clenches her inner muscles to hold him in, unable to focus on anything but the exquisite pull and drag of him between her legs, bracing herself against every punishing blow of his hips to her flesh, biting her fist against the shock of each obscene sweep of his tongue at the nape of her neck and every bruising press of his fingers digging into her breasts and ribs and thighs.

_Who owns you? Body and soul?_

She’s drooling and rambling in less than a minute and coming two thrusts later, and when he follows a few strokes after that, his teeth sink into the tender meat of her shoulder and his grunt of pleasure makes her squeal into the bed.

“You like this,” he rasps out, sounding tortured, as if touching her is torment, when he’s the one hurting her.

He chokes and shudders against her and it’s glorious how utterly his large frame relaxes against hers, how his hot tongue swipes over the fresh bite on her shoulder, lapping at the slow red trickles that drip onto the bedcovers.

_You’re in my blood now. And I’m in yours._

A warm gush of wetness seeps around his knot, his breath teases against her neck, and she very briefly thinks it’s over, sedated and deluded by the relative peaceful moment as they lie together, him tightly wedged inside her. Relieved, she thinks perhaps he’s had a change of heart and sighs without thinking, “Ben…”

“I said. Shut. Up.” His voice turns thick with rage and otherworldly power.

Like a creature from the Underworld.

He drags a fistful of hair back, twisting her to the side so she's forced to look at him. He’s rutting into her again, crushing her under his weight, a burly forearm smashing against her windpipe, his heavy thighs trapping hers. His whiskers scrape her cheek, scratching, burning. His nails dig in like claws, pulling delicious tingles up and down her spine.

“Better yet," he growls, "you go on to sleep without me. I’ll be along to fetch you soon.”

The air grows cold as ice and the shadows press in. Close, too close.

_Don’t fucking move._

His veins glow black and she can see the bones in his hand through his skin, clutching at her like a demon's. She can smell it, rivers of blood and the rotten stench of death, flooding her senses, familiar. Like an old nightmare from long ago.

Not a nightmare.

Her scream dissolves into swirling darkness, made insubstantial and she reaches for something, anything to make sense of it, any crutch to hold onto as her sanity is ripped apart and she falls.

He bends to suck the gland aside her neck, and she convulses, over and over, unable to stop, knowing he’s taking more than just pleasure.

It’s a desecration and benediction, a trade, a theft. For every bit of her he steals, she sucks in a little more darkness, a little more of…whatever sick corruption he’s feeding her. He drags her limp torso around so she’s twisted beneath him, on her side, hips canted out and he scowls down, his eyes on fire, the only light in the room.

She falls.

He’s dismantling her somehow, devouring her. Killing her.

_I think…I’m dying…_

Death. It beckons.

She falls behind a veil into a nightmare place.

The pain storms all around in ruthless torrents, an endless source and there’s no light anywhere. She finds it again, that cold pit of darkness, and she feels his genuine surprise when he reaches for it too - _mine_ \- but she gets there first, and she’s alone. He's just Beyond, but she can’t move and he’s _using_ her and she can’t breathe there’s no air only shadows only Death.

_Death._

Darkness.

Here. Here it is.

Now. Yes.

She dons the cloak with languorous assurance.

It fits her perfectly.

The Light is corrupted, somehow, and she wants to revel in it. What he’s doing to her, in that Other place, it’s wrong. A violation of nature. Evil.

He’s a monster, a beast.

_Mine._

He won’t stop until he's good and ready to come for her.

And she doesn’t want him to.

_I understand. It is not so dreadful here..._

She’s always been drawn straight to the dark. She rather likes it here in this Place where she's Fallen.

Perhaps she’ll stay a while.

Maybe forever.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author’s End Note:**
> 
> Oh, hello! You’re still here, then? Well, okeydokey.
> 
> First and foremost: I would like to give a special shoutout to BrazenHussy who (two chapters ago) mentioned the point about a gift freely given – reading your comment was like you read my frickin’ mind, so kudos to you! Also, a few of you noted the significance of his last line in Chapter 31 but livsackler actually said it: “omg did he just admit he loves her” – YEAH. Yeah.
> 
> Regarding the chapter count: I've set it to 40, which is approximate for Parts One and Two. Just to get a general idea of where we're at. A few have asked about the length of this fic, which is why I'm estimating here. When we get to Part Three, the number will either go up again or change back to "unknown." We'll see.
> 
> Okay. On to the hard part.
> 
> This chapter got away from me. There’s a bunch more. I just couldn’t do it in one or it would have been waayyy too long, and it would have taken ages to polish and post it, and ya’ll deserve regular updates, not excuses from me, an Official Hot Mess. 
> 
> What’s one more chapter in the grand scheme of things, right? Or several?
> 
> In other news, I’m a dirty liar.
> 
> I know I told you in the notes last chapter we were getting the full play by play of All Hell's Eve, AND WE ARE but I also said no timey-shifty, no fluffy-fluff, no blah blah blah in the meantime. Words are easy to type and hard to commit to. 
> 
> So. What comes next is what we get. I’ll give the rest of this scene to you, I SWEAR, but in manageable doses. Because I can’t just dump 20k words of All Hell’s Eve in one long, unbroken scene on you guys. Nope. Can’t do it. 
> 
> It will murder the pace, and you’ll get bored and I’ll be fucking exhausted and…well…this story has a cadence to it that I sort of want to keep. Like the spinning of a wheel and we are moving closer to the center, even though we started at the center, didn’t we? I don’t know. 
> 
> But here’s what I do know. I can try to wrangle this into digestible pieces, so we get more frequent updates and in a way that won’t have you all biting your fingernails off and freaking out too much. I know I’ve been cruel with the cliffhangers and suspense. I know before this one I’ve LITERALLY left off every single of the previous SEVEN consecutive chapters on a Kylo-delivering-a-menacing-one-liner-cliffhanger. (Sidebar: I went back and counted, and holy shit, ya’ll are still here for this torture? Damn.)
> 
> If you decide to come back for more, please know that the shit I have planned for the next bit is…ooof. You have my personal guarantee of a proper conclusion of All Hell’s Eve, but also…well…let’s just say if you like conflicted, brooding, grumpy, slightly megalomaniacal, totally emotionally fucked and it’s all his fault Daddy Hades, then I think you’ll thoroughly enjoy the rest of Part Two…especially if you’re at all ready for Rey to finally start waking up and showing some backbone.  
> Just you wait. 😉
> 
> Oh…and more smut. So strap in. Or stay strapped in. Whatever you need to do.
> 
> For those of you worried about the fact that you *might* have accidentally just read a necrophilia scene and liked it (or didn’t like it but read it anyway!), be assured, according to my excellent sources, this technically didn’t count as necrophilia. 
> 
> And by “excellent resources”, I’m referring, of course, to the Twitter poll I did a while back. And by “technically” I mean, well…she wasn’t all the way dead just because she is in the Underworld, right? I mean. Maybe partly dead. But not all the way. Like, her body is still warm up there in the land of the living, so I'm sure it's fine.
> 
> I might be sick and twisted, but geez.


	33. Hosnian Retrograde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT WARNING:** Some dub-con in this chapter...

# Chapter Thirty-Three – Hosnian Retrograde

_If you agree to serve me, you must do so with your whole heart, with everything you have. Your service will be for life, and if I detect any waning dedication on your part, the penalty will be severe._

_However, if you choose to serve me, to devote your life to your studies, I will teach you things that cannot be learned from any other source. I can teach you secrets of the Force only a handful have attained since the dawn of time._

_I can grant you access to power beyond your wildest imaginings. You wish for vengeance? I will provide you the tools to enact it. You wish for wealth? I will lay the galaxy’s riches at your feet. You wish to be worshiped? I will ensure you are revered as a god until the stars crumble to dust. All I require is your utmost devotion, your absolute and unconditional faith. All I ask is for you to demonstrate uncompromising ambition and steadfast piety. I will not tolerate lukewarm acolytes who are easily swayed by sentiment and compassion._

_Compassion is not for the likes of you, nor will it ever be. You have all the strength you need within yourself. None will ever love you, nor do you need them to. You will set on this path alone. You have no need for love, and you must cut that foolish longing from your heart immediately, or else it will grow like a cancerous sore and overtake your power. And you have vast stores of it, of raw strength. I have not found a prospective pupil with such promise in a great long while._

_A feral Omega is a ferocious animal, and in such a state can be a very useful tool…nearly unstoppable once set into motion._

_But. You are not an Omega._

_Your mother is ferocious, driven, and she has impressively managed to accumulate some very powerful allies, yet strong enough to threaten the First Order of the Church. But even Leia Organa understands the price that must be paid to win, to earn a lasting legacy. Even she knows she must forgo such weak emotions as love, compassion, mercy…and she is only a woman. If she can achieve such power for herself, think what you, a vastly superior Alpha, can accomplish._

_If you can find a way to balance discipline with desire…someday…you will become capable of the most marvelous destruction. Yes. I think you will make a magnificent conduit for Death._

_Death, master?_

_Yes. Death. You are repelled by the idea? No matter. Life must always yield to death in the end, and the day will come when such things will not upset you as they clearly do now. You will learn to cast such concerns aside. On that day you will learn the true extent of your powers._

_My powers?_

_I will give you a taste of them now, if you like. Something to think upon before you commit to me wholly. I will show you how to cheat Death, my son. How to steal Its shadows and claim them for your own. For a price._

_What is the price, master?_

_The price of blood. Now. Extend your arm for me and let me see…yes, good. Just like that. By all means scream if you need to. Anyone who hears will have no care for your pain…although, in your case, I suspect they never did, did they?_

He drags her back. Roughly.

She gasps, long and hard, like she’s been at the bottom of a lake and she’s been under for too long and forgotten how to breathe.

Her skin will be unnaturally sensitive like this, her eyes unable to adjust to any light in the room, but he cares for nothing but sinking back into her tight, slick flesh and sucking drunkenly at her gland, salty with sweat, and coating his tongue with the sultry essence.

She arches eagerly, and the friction is too much, too enticing, so he pins her with a heavy thrust of hips and grips her jaw, forcing her into stillness.

To his surprise, she mumbles against his fingers, accusing, “That was _bad_ of you…I know…what you did. That was–”

“Who are _you_ to reprimand me?” he scoffs. “Besides, you _liked_ it. Filthy whore.”

He tightens his hold until she whimpers, grinding his pelvis into hers until she convulses around him again and again and tears leak from her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, knowing he just defiled her beyond imagining, using her the way he did. Turning her own biology against her is one thing, but…she opens her mouth to answer, so he kisses her into silence, lewdly thrusting his tongue down her throat, intent on ravishing her until she’s covered in his scent, inside and out.

When she’s limp and no longer resisting, he draws in a ragged breath and exhales, "Whore."

“Go to hell,” she whispers with faint defiance, though she’s apparently too frightened of further retribution to move or even look at him.

“I will. Next time I’ll bring you along for company. I’d keep us there forever if I didn’t know how ecstatic my mother would be to rid herself of me so effortlessly. Would you like that, I wonder?”

“No.”

His eyes pierce hers, sharp and assessing.

“No?” he croons, bending to nip at her tender little earlobe. “You don’t like it _There_? I confess I find this news most ironic, princess, when you have such a penchant for ruin and treachery. You'll fit right in with all the other demons and monsters.”

“I’ll…I think I’ll…go mad if I go back there…” Her voice quavers, but her eyes gleam with a tell-tale lust he recognizes all too well.

“Oh, we’re _absolutely_ going back,” he assures her. "What you had just now was only a _taste_ , sweetheart."

The lure to send her back and carry on with his depravity is very strong, almost too great to resist, but even if she was only in the Underworld for minutes, she’ll need a bit of time to recover or she’ll definitely go mad, as she said.

“You liked it,” he says again and groans when her hot little mouth sucks at his scent gland in reply.

She flexes involuntarily around his knot and his eyes nearly roll back at the exquisite, albeit temporary, distraction. It’s difficult to maintain his anger with her quivering and moaning so softly beneath him while he spills himself into her yet again.

They’ll be stuck like this for a while, so he glowers until she turns her head, then rolls them to the side and holds her roughly in place to wait, uncaring if the position is slightly uncomfortable in light of the gentle flutters of her body wringing him dry.

_I’ll most definitely have her pregnant by morning._

He lies there and admires the way the fine hairs form little curls on her sweat-damp neck. But eventually, he pulls away and slides out of bed. He can tell she’s tired, but she will not sleep. Instead, she watches him warily.

Intent on finding his wine goblet, he prowls through the dark room. The candles and fire died out long ago, but he can see through the gloom clearly enough. The darkness is his now, on this night more than ever.

Lightning flashes through the window, illuminating her face in shadow and making her eyes gleam with remnants of dark magic. But she is not as distraught as she should be and regards him rather avariciously. 

_She ought to be screaming and running, not hungry for more. She must know of blood magic after all_ , he realizes. _Lies upon lies._

He spies his abandoned dagger instead of his goblet and returns to the bed with it. Only when she catches sight of the blade does she try to scramble away from him.

"Where the _fuck_ do you think you're going?" He snares her ankle and hauls her into his embrace all too easily, straddling her hips until she stills. “I asked once before if you were a spy.” He nicks a vein in her wrist and she lurches, trying to throw him off. “I’m not asking again.”

Her eyes roll back as he sucks at the bloody wound he made.

“I don’t _need_ to ask,” he vows thickly over the delectable taste. “You’re going to tell me everything I want to know. Right fucking now.”

She swallows, agonizing waves of heat washing through her, hard enough to make her thighs shiver and ache and he can feel every bit of it.

And worse…he can _see_ it, her treachery. It’s muted with far too much interference and if he were closer to sane he would remind himself it is folly to attempt to read a mated Omega’s blood without risking–

He can see it in her eyes. The guilt. And sorrow.

The guilt convicts her even as the sorrow angers him.

“Let’s see if we can make that sweet little tongue of yours tell the truth for a change.”

He shifts, digging his fingers into her hip and allowing his will to flood their bond, wielding his compulsion like a blunt object. Only it slides away, and he can’t land a blow.

“You like this,” he whispers, somewhat confounded but persistent nonetheless, swiping the flat of his tongue over the side of her neck until she squirms and clings and whimpers agreement.

She’s helpless, physically at least, and she won’t stop him, can't even if she wants to. Not for the first time it occurs to him he could tear her apart, piece by piece. He could crush her, destroy her, if he had a mind to do it. For now, he revels in how easily she yields, how her soft, delicate fingers trace the contours of his chest and grip at his ribs and rake across his shoulders savagely enough to draw blood when he pushes between her legs again, his dagger all but forgotten.

She was made for this, to be taken and conquered and ravished, and he glories in it, in the way her body surrenders to his, a gently curved counterpart to his own angular frame, how she’s made to cushion every lunge, to answer his husky moans with her own softer but no less passionate cries.

“Answer me true…" he pants against her mouth, "...you like getting fucked like a back-alley slut?”

She arches her spine and her eyes blaze liquid fire, burning for more, always more…

“You _want_ me to rut you like a bitch in heat? Don't you?”

He gives her a few aggressive thrusts to make his point until she’s slobbering all over his shoulder and nipping at him and begging and whining.

Her fingers tug at his hair and she pulls him close for a hungry kiss…and for a few minutes, he forgets he’s furious with her, that she’s a traitorous whore bent on ruining him. He slows his pace and flexes his hips with such passionate determination and he feels it all unraveling, unwinding. He can’t think.

_I love you._

Then he remembers again and pulls out until she screams and begs him not to stop.

"You want me to breed you? Yes? Tell me."

Her muffled cries spur him on, and he fucks her fast and punishingly hard, and when she cries for more, it only inspires more fury. She _must_ be lying.

There's no way she can be enjoying this. Not unless she's as degenerate as he is.

“Back to the Underworld, princess.” He snags a handful of hair and pulls a thread of magic between them, tasting her instant terror.

“Stop it!”

“I don’t think so.”

“Please don’t…I don’t want to…please…don’t,” she coughs, now trying wholeheartedly to wriggle free.

“Unless you can tell the truth…make me believe it…”

“...I love you…”

_“Liar.”_

Something black flares behind her eyes, and she hisses, “Fine. Then I _hate_ you.”

“Better.” He yanks on her hair, out of breath. Almost. “More believable.”

“You vile bastard.”

“Not true. Try again.” He pinches a nipple and she squeals, so close to the edge he can fucking taste it.

“Son of a bitch!”

“Oooh, that's _definitely_ true. Very _good_ ,” he purrs, licking the crook of her neck and fucking her until she’s hoarse from screaming. “Gods, you’re so wet. You want to come?”

“Yes.”

“Beg me.”

“Please, please.” Her voice wobbles and shakes, and she clutches at him.

“Are you lying to me?”

“… _no_ …please, _please_ …”

He can’t hold out forever, so he bites her shoulder, hard. She writhes and tries to twist away, but it’s too late, he’s knotted her again and she’s _coming_ and fuck he can fucking feel every breathtaking pulse of her, and he wants to drown in it like an addict drinking poison, upping the dose until it’s toxic, even though he damned well knows it’s killing him. He can’t stop chafing against her satiny skin until she’s raw from it and lapping at her fresh bites until she’s sobbing.

His knot grows heavy and full against her tight, clutching heat and he’s lost, floating in that glorious half-life where nothing exists but the sound of their hearts drumming in unison to a frantic tempo. His sweat shines on her skin, her taut, pink nipples bud against his palms, and he scuffs his chin against her neck.

_Tell me the truth, now. Tell me…everything._

_Resist it, Rey._

He hears it as plainly as the thunder rumbling outside.

She’s learning how to flout him, and he needs to be more cautious. He knows compulsion works both ways, even if she doesn’t.

But caution is difficult to find when she’s diffused in his bloodstream like spice, when he’s caught in a trap of his own making.

He licks a drip of red from her shoulder and the air freezes into ice and his shadows begin to swirl and dance and move in the murky depths of the room. Her apprehension ratchets up and the darkness becomes a tangible thing, a living presence forming ropes of swirling cold around her throat and wrists and thighs. He can feel it pushing her under like she’s being forced underwater.

And oh, how it makes him smile. 

Pain is a crutch, but he has so much to spare he spills it all around the both of them. That old, familiar insanity twists against the back of his skull, and she feels it too. And between his pain and her fear…and something else he can almost touch…the shadows crawl and hiss and spit.

_Gravewalker. I can bring the Underworld without a cut, and isn't that a bloody miracle?_

He pulls it close, and this is where unbound terror lives and she doesn’t like it here, not at all. He can feel her fright and dread and would remind her the journey is worse than the destination. He would convince her not to be afraid, for when they arrive – _soon, my darling_ – she won't ever want to leave, but this is fucking dangerous and he needs to concentrate – _shit, what’s my source? Ah. Revenge…yesss…_

Unlike before, this time the veil is ripped away, and it’s so much easier now, he can see it, how permeable and frail the distance is between the Dark and the light. He understands, truly, what Snoke has been trying to show him all this time.

How close Death is to the living. How close life is to the Dead.

Darkness falls, and she might have him beat on the Dejarik boards, but Here he is Master of all and swifter to pull the shade around himself like a cloak. She looks on, bewildered.

 _I want answers._ _Tell me, my darling, or I’ll make it hurt and take them anyway._

He caresses her cheek, smooth over the pale glow of bone through her translucent flesh webbed with delicate black and pulsing with darkness.

_No._

_Hmmm. I think yes, actually._

And he reaches out and seizes it – it’s right fucking there – a memory of hers. From Jakku. She’s very young. This is what he glimpsed in the ballroom.

_Give it to me._

And she does.

He’s shocked to hear his mother’s voice so clearly, younger but still recognizable…around the time he was sent away to Luke’s.

Her parents are there in the vague back of her mind, but only shapes and blurred, as if he’s viewing them through a heavy pane of frosted glass. She has no recollection of what they looked like.

He doesn’t see the planetwide evacuation that separated them, but he knows she was sent away in the first wave when her homeworld fell under attack. He knows it because she knows it.

He wonders what else she knows.

Something twitches in his thoughts, but he’s looking for his mother, so he ignores it. He sweeps over year upon year of lonely nights, of Rey crying into a scrawny little pillow under the watchful gaze of a Caretaker at the convent, of her dutifully reciting her vows, obedient and robotic, of endless hours in meditation – a cruel amount of time for an intelligent, curious little girl, surely – he can revisit these moments later, her tutor’s constant mantras, and her hunger, always hovering, this aching, burning, _incessant_ craving for a family…a mother…for love…

_Why must everything I love betray me?_

He’s a young boy, on a rare trip with his mother to Naboo. His father is off on some wild adventure, but Chewie is there, a great beast of a dog. A gift from Father on Ben’s fourth birthday. But he’s ten now and old enough to visit the dock without accompaniment. Old enough to go off on his own.

He’s going to take the little boat at the end of the dock and run away and become a pilot like his father. He heard his mother and uncle talking and his belly aches from what he heard.

He didn’t catch all of what they said, but he heard enough.

_…you can’t just use people … not a tool for whatever you want, Leia!_

_…don’t be ridiculous. A tool?_

_You know what I mean! Ben isn’t a tool … for politics or this fanatical … keep him from knowing about Vader’s connection to the Church._

_Darth Vader was Ben’s grandfather, and a monster to boot! A cruel animal who killed billions during his very short, bloody reign. He was … dirty desert scavenger and how he married our mother…murdered her … of royal blood … never know … you dare try to tell me what legacy I’m allowed to try to build from that!_

_Leia. He’s only a boy, but he’s going to be a Jedi someday. I can sense a deep power in him, and he needs–_

_What?_

_…he needs to find his own way._

_If you’re not with … against me. Ben is very powerful, and it frightens the hell out of me. He’s … too much Vader in him … a monster, just like Father was. The prophets saw it the day he was born. I’ll use him if I must._

_Use him? He’s not a fucking hammer, Leia._

_No. I know he isn’t. He’s the anvil._

Ben doesn’t know what an anvil is, but the way Mother said it made him go cold inside and he knows he will be in enormous trouble if she finds out he overheard. So he will run away, and he’ll take Chewie with him. Just as soon as he stops crying.

But between the tears and the bright sun and the wet, wave-splashed dock, he slips, and he hardly knows how to swim, and the water is in his mouth and everywhere and he can’t breathe. He lurches to the surface, but it’s too deep out here and his lungs are burning when he sinks again. Mother will never know where he disappeared to…and he wants her now, so terribly frightened as he scrambles again, reaching for the dock, trying to climb one of the pilings, slimy with algae, but the waves are surging in with the change of the tide.

And for a few very long minutes, he fights the waves and tries to push himself to the bobbing boat. It moves away because he untied it. His feet grapple in search of solid ground and his throat hurts from screaming for his mother or someone, anyone who cares, but no one does and nobody hears…and every time his foot hits sand it washes out from beneath him and he can’t breathe.

He doesn’t want to die, even if Mother wants him to. He has to live, he just _has_ to.

Just when he’s too weak to hang on any longer, he hears a splash and it’s Chewie. Chewie can swim even though he’s a dog, and he snags Ben’s collar in his teeth, and together they make their way to shore. When they get there, Chewie licks his face while Ben chokes and coughs and cries endless hot torrents of grief.

_…too much Vader in him…a monster…_

He can’t run away now. The boat floated out to sea.

“You were afraid once. Of death.”

He pushes back, baring his teeth and growling, “Those are _mine_.”

She cocks her head and reaches for more.

_No, I’m in your blood. They’re mine now, too._

**Coruscant, Ten Months Later –**

Hope is surely going to pull down the ceiling with her caterwauling, and Kylo has no idea how to make it stop. He only knows he needs to do something, _now_ , and he hasn’t the foggiest notion of where to begin.

Phasma slinks into the room, easing his uncertainty. Phasma’s a woman. She’ll know all about children and such.

“Is there something I can do for you, my lord?” She eyes the baby a bit dubiously.

“You’re a woman.”

Phasma arches a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “…yes?”

“Tell me how to cease her crying.”

“My lord…?”

“Her crying! What do I do to make it stop?” Kylo bites out. Surely this demand isn’t so unintelligible as to render a woman of her seasoned and extensive skill-set _entirely_ mute?

“My experience with babies is exceedingly limited, my lord.”

He’s about to issue a fuming rebuke over this blatant lack of foresight on her part, but Mitaka slides into the room a moment later and takes in the situation at a glance.

“Mitaka. About time, thank the gods. Make it stop.”

Grasping the request immediately, Mitaka reaches for the squalling babe, but Kylo suddenly finds himself reluctant to hand her over, even to his most trusted servant. They do a quick, awkward shuffle as Kylo decides and then changes his mind several times to pass her into more competent hands before opting to keep her.

Hope’s cries become downright furious.

_Ah. So, she’s to have her mother’s temper, then._

“Well?” he snaps, although Phasma and Mitaka only stare at him, gape jawed. Does no one else comprehend the direness of the current state of affairs? Must he light an actual fire under their feet for them to appreciate the urgency of the situation?

Mitaka clears his throat, sensing his lord’s ire. “In my experience, my lord, babies cry when they are in want of something. If we simply go down the list and eliminate any sources of her agitation…”

Kylo cuts him off, “What in the name of god’s bloody knot could she possibly be wanting?”

“Well, is she hungry, milord?”

“How in the knotted hell should I know?” he snarls, prompting a fresh bout of screeching from Hope.

Clearly his daughter has no qualms indicating how utterly he’s failing to handle this catastrophe. Perhaps she has a touch of his temper, as well. Shit.

“It’s not as if I can bloody well ask her, is it?”

A disembodied voice from the washroom calls out, “I fed her just before we landed!” Evidently Rey is listening in and leaving him to deal with this calamity all on his own, the unhelpful, demented wench. He sighs, but he will not plead for her to come out and assist, unwilling to concede to failure just yet.

“Well…perhaps the little princess is bored?” Mitaka gulps.

Hope sucks in another lungful of air and wails loud enough to be heard at Market Level.

There’s no way this child is bored. How can she be? She’s at the very center of attention and patently fed up with all of them. Kylo flares his nostrils.

“I swear to the gods if you haven’t anything better to offer…” His threat hovers in the air, unspoken but unmistakable.

But he catches a whiff of something just as Mitaka mutters, “Well, perhaps she’s, erm, in need of fresh…linens?”

Kylo lifts her and gives a wary sniff at the middle of her blankets where he guesses might be the source of–

Aha. That’s _definitely_ the problem.

“Well. All right then. Show me what to do,” he orders.

And for the second time in minutes, Mitaka is rendered speechless.

“Sooner is better, Mitaka.” Mitaka shoots a baffled look between the screeching babe and Kylo. “ _Now_ is soon enough.”

“Yes, milord, uhm.” Mitaka glances to Phasma, who is smirking in the background, before he gestures to a finely carved table at the far wall of Kylo’s bedchamber, set next to a small bed for the baby. Kylo recalls his hasty order to have furniture brought in right before he left Coruscant to fetch his runaway wife from halfway across the galaxy. This reminder forces him to reign in his temper and he tries to assess the scene with a calculating eye.

The infant-sized bed is a frilly, frivolous-looking thing, outfitted with a miniature canopy designed to match his own furniture, only in the palest blues and covered with ruffles and fluffy little blankets and sheets. But it is the table that captures the better part of his attention; it has a bit of padding on top and rails, probably to prevent the child from rolling off, and yes, this makes sense. The table is meant to be used to deal with just the sort of problem facing him now. Beneath it sits a shelf stocked with freshly folded linens and several mysterious bottles and boxes and bins full of Zeus knows what.

Kylo feels a flash of doubt. Everything looks delicate and flimsy and only reminds him how huge and brutish he is. That table looks as if it might collapse if he bumps it with his knee.

Perhaps it isn’t sturdy enough to support the princess and he ought to find something more stable…has _no one_ thought this through?

But Mitaka seems to find a renewed self-confidence, and Kylo sets Hope on the padded tabletop, and together he and Mitaka uncover the essential equipment needed for the daunting task before them.

He unearths a box of powders and salves and ointments and scented washcloths – far more than the bare essentials Rey seemed to need on the ship – but eventually Mitaka guides him through the process of actually changing the baby’s diaper. The procedure is indeed familiar – Kylo witnessed Rey do it several dozen times during their return to Coruscant. It didn’t look terribly difficult, but she never mentioned the heart-pounding nerves arising from the sheer terror of possibly, inadvertently…breaking the baby.

However, the minute the soiled diaper is away, Hope eases up on the screaming, and when Kylo unconsciously draws in a thread of magic to steady his nerves, Hope snuffles and gurgles and blinks up at him with apparent delight.

Next to him, Mitaka heaves a sigh as they stare down at his clumsily applied diaper. It’s a bit lopsided, but at least the baby isn’t crying anymore.

“Well. That ought to do it for now.”

“I can begin compiling a list of suitable nurses for the princess, your lordship. I’ll get on it right away,” Mitaka assures him.

“I think her ladyship and I can handle it from here, Mitaka,” he declares over a small spike of jealousy. The idea of anyone else interfering with the child makes him uneasy.

Perhaps Rey had a right to be upset when he earlier threatened to put the child under someone else's care.

“Yes, milord,” Mitaka replies, only a hint of surprise showing on his face. “And if I may, sir?”

Kylo scowls at the presumption but is unable to muster anything more chilling when Hope snorts softly, so reminiscent of her mother he almost finds himself bursting into a grin for the second time in an hour.

“Go on, Mitaka.”

“On behalf of the palace staff, I am to convey they are all quite impressed, my lord. With her ladyship’s hearty constitution. Some of the older staff are saying it’s the quietest birth they’ve ever heard of and many are openly calling her the Lady Phoenix and crediting her return from the dead to the Hosnian retrograde.”

Kylo grunts, glad Mitaka is canny enough to keep him informed of pertinent gossip. Of course, the rumors ran rampant about Rey after All Hell’s Eve. When Lady Bazine’s corpse had been spotted before his Knights found it, word had spread like wildfire Rey had been murdered that night. And then, the people rejoiced again when she later mysteriously arose from the dead to become a literal embodiment of a phoenix, and her banners flew far and wide next to his Black Sun. 

But Hosnia in retrograde is superstitious drivel, and the peasants will always claim strange mystical powers rising whenever it occurs. If anything mysterious has come up recently, it is Kylo's own powers, though they materialized months and months ago.

“And if I may, I’m very glad you’re all back safe and sound, my lord.”

Mitaka turns to leave with Phasma who silently witnessed the entire event with ill-restrained humor, and Kylo decides he will need to invent some particularly horrid task to assign her as revenge for her lack of participation in the recent harrowing events. Perhaps he should charge her with dealing with the contents of the diaper pail. Yes, that will be an excellent retaliation...but later.

For now, he prefers to keep the room calm and quiet and a bit of privacy is suddenly quite appealing.

Only at the last second does Kylo remember to have them send up something for Rey to eat – she’ll likely be hungry again soon – before he returns his full attention to his daughter.

Rey had her bundled up somehow, and Kylo hasn’t a clue as to how to replicate it, but he does his best to swaddle the child into a clean blanket and lift her to his shoulder, inadvertently sending another soothing thread of magic into them both when his nerves threaten to overwhelm him.

He sinks into his chair by the fire, shifting the baby so he can look at her.

It hits him all at once he’s hardly slept for a week and not well at all for many more months before this. He’s quite tired but so utterly absorbed with Hope’s miniature, curly eyelashes and impossibly small, perfect little fingers clinging to one of his, each tiny digit topped with a tiny, perfect fingernail. And he is so enraptured with her soft, sweet scent, an echo of her mother’s, and a trace of his, too, but something else all her own, he briefly forgets his exhaustion.

She’s a whole little person, his little Hellborn princess, he realizes. Unique unto herself and fragile and wonderful and filled with a magic Kylo cannot name. All he knows is this tiny little human has shaken his world of all the discord and disharmony and for a few perfect moments, he simply exists in awe of her. She stares back until his own eyelids grow heavy and he settles deeper into his chair, drifting into a half-doze, too aware of the precious, fragile bundle in his arms to fully commit to sleep.

Rey emerges from her bath a minute later and finds them thus. She’s very quiet and probably assumes them both to be asleep. He keeps his eyes closed, suddenly not wanting to startle her.

Timid as a doe, she steps close and hovers, sniffing gently at them both. He forces his eyes to remain shut when she carefully lifts the babe from his chest.

He can hear the whisper of her movements across the room as she settles into his bed just as the child starts to mewl. It’s a marvel how connected the two are, mother and child, how the very instant the baby stirs, Rey is always there just in time, ready to feed her. There’s a pallet at the foot of his bed, which he’d intended for Rey, but it’s immediately apparent the thing won’t do at all. There isn’t room enough for pillows or any conceivable way for her to sit comfortably and nurse the baby, although the sight of her in his bed after all this time makes his gut churn with some unknown ache.

He holds himself still, watching through slitted eyes as she opens her robe – his robe, actually – and draws the baby to her breast, and for a few ethereal, blissful minutes, the only sounds are those of the fire crackling and the baby’s demanding little grunts, grown louder in the week since he found her on Takodana.

Kylo ruminates on the servants’ claim it was the quietest childbirth they’ve ever heard of.

Knowing Rey, he suspects the actual event was not quiet at all and feels a pang of regret that he missed it.

“Who else knows?” Rey asks, breaking the quiet. Obviously, she can tell he’s awake, so he opens his eyes, ending his charade and answering in low tones to match hers.

“Other than myself and Mitaka, only Phasma.” Awareness tingles through their bond, making him uncomfortably conscious of how very connected they are, too, especially now, when it is peaceful, and they can practically finish each other’s thoughts.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“You must have gone to a great deal of trouble to cover it up. My absence.”

He doesn’t bother to lower his voice any further and bites somewhat sharply, “A fair bit.”

“Well, I wish I had been more of a nuisance, then!” She shifts the baby to her shoulder and begins to vigorously pat her back. Evidently, she's lost all fear of him during the course of their return trip to Coruscant. He probably should attempt to rectify this, but he can't seem to muster the will to be too intimidating in the presence of their daughter. Still. He ought to remind his wife who's in charge. 

“It was plenty enough nuisance, I assure you, and I’m still thinking on your punishment, so you might consider biting that tongue of yours before it gets you into further trouble,” he warns, sitting up and rubbing his tired eyes.

But she merely scoffs, “Pah!” 

Magic sizzles through the air, making the lights flicker and her eyebrows shoot up in subdued outrage. She hisses, “You promised you wouldn’t!”

Shit.

“I can’t always help it,” he grumbles. “Besides, Hope likes it.”

“ _Likes_ it?” Rey cries. “What, magic?”

Double shit. “Yes…?”

“How in the hell do you know she _likes_ it?”

He shrugs.

Restless, he stands and skulks over to the bed so he can look at them. If he can’t touch, he can at least loom close enough to let their scents waft to his nose. The baby coos and he finally permits the smallest of smiles to ease his frown.

Watching him, Rey’s lips tighten into a thin line and the lights flicker again.

He smirks and waggles a finger at her, taunting, “Ha! That wasn’t me! That was all you, sweetheart!”

“Well, I _really_ can’t help it!”

 _You need a teacher. Especially now we've returned to Coruscant_ , he thinks. Being back on the planet seems to have an effect on them both. 

The fire in the hearth crackles and sparks, and it's definitely Rey making the air snap with electric energy until Hope gurgles.

“You see? She likes it,” he murmurs, craning his neck to look beyond the edge of the blanket.

Rey’s nostrils flare, and she gripes, “I can’t believe I leave you alone for five minutes and you use magic on the baby. I thought – you _promised_ you wouldn’t!”

His pulse thumps defensively, but his voice is even when he emphasizes, “I promised no more _hellraking_.”

“What if you…zap her brain or something?”

_God’s teeth, what if she’s right?_

As one they stare down at Hope in mild horror.

But as if to prove them both overly worried, the baby emits a prolonged coo that is so intensely cute and such an obvious indicator of good health, Kylo’s smile breaks into a full-blown grin.

Rey lets out a disgusted “Pffft” and, much to his disappointment, tugs his robe back into place from where it has been slipping off her shoulder ever since she emerged from her bath. He’s been hoping the damned thing would slide off entirely and a pout crosses his face before he can stop it.

She catches his sulky glance and hints, “You might remind Phasma to fetch my old robe from my _former_ apartments. If it’s still there.”

“Of course,” he agrees, losing steam even if she’s still apparently in the mood to argue. “Only it must have slipped my mind as I was in rather a hurry to come for you.” He tries to sound stern, but in truth, he’s worn out. 

She _humphs_ again and he decides he has no intention of asking anyone to fetch her a better fitting robe. He likes the sight of her swimming in his, although she’s far too alluring when she’s off-kilter like this. And if the past week is any indication, he knows damned well residing in such proximity to the source of his torture and not being able to do a gods’ damned thing about it will only add to his already escalating torment.

Especially since…

_Kalonia said she yet loves me._

And while cold logic tells him Kalonia's words cannot be possible, there’s still Hope to consider.

He evaluates the pallet again. There’s no way he’ll be comfortable sleeping on it. And he’s practically dizzy with fatigue.

His own bed is enormous, and there is plenty of room on the other side. And since he refuses to allow Rey and Hope out of his sight, he really doesn’t have any other good options.

Rey observes with increasing suspicion as he goes to the door and quietly orders several Omicrons to come in and remove the pallet while he dons a pair of sleep trousers and a loose tunic.

The panic in her voice is unmistakable when he calmly turns back the covers and climbs into bed. Several arm’s lengths stretch between them, and he settles in.

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

“I’m getting some bloody rest,” he grunts, burrowing his head into the pillows. “Food is being brought up for you. And don’t think you can get away with charming your way past any of the Omicrons. My Knights are guarding the exits round the clock, and they are quite impervious to your wiles. Rouse me…if you need help with her.”

Love or hate, she belongs to him. He’s not letting her go. Either one of them. Even if it costs him everything.

Instead of filling him with terror, the thought brings a peace he hasn’t felt for a very long time, if ever.

And even the possible threat of her digging his dagger out of Hope's basket on the floor and doing him in with it while he sleeps is not enough to prevent him from promptly drifting into the first dreamless slumber he’s had in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *heavy sigh*
> 
> Guys, the world is just going to hell in a handbasket, and all I can say is...please, please love each other. We need so much love if we are going to get through this. Be strong. Be an ally. Don't give up. If you can vote, then vote, and if you can volunteer or protest or sign petitions or do whatever it takes to fight against fascism and tyranny, then do it. There is evil in the world, but there's good, too. And know that you are loved. And beautiful just the way you are, _exactly_ as you are. Be safe, be kind, and #RESIST. As disappointed as I am in my country right now, I want to have faith that we can make changes. I think we can if we open our hearts and remain steadfast in our demands for justice we can change.
> 
> Okay...so on to the story...I maybe was a bit sentimental writing this chapter, in light of all the chaos flying around out there in the real world. Also, I warned ya there would be some fluff, too, to balance out the darkness, right? Hope you liked it...*winks*
> 
> We are weaving our way to the finish line of Part Two...and I'm tossing around some ideas for naming Part Three...and I'm really excited about it. 
> 
> I hope you are, too.
> 
> XOXO.


	34. Anointed

# 

# Chapter Thirty-Four – Anointed

For the first time in days, Kylo finds himself nearly alone in his rooms, with only Hope snoozing nearby in her tiny bed while he waits for Rey to finish readying herself for the christening of their daughter.

Hope sleeps, blissfully unaware of her father’s internal dilemmas and is already dressed in a lovely, hand-woven little gown with tiny golden threads laced through the fabric to make it shimmer. A miniature lace cap waits nearby, ready to sit upon her downy soft curls, which look to be growing in as black and unruly as Kylo’s own.

Rey seems to be taking an interminably long time lingering in her old apartments to dress for the brief ceremony. After the christening, she will return to her former rooms to ready herself for the Coronation, as well, since those preparations will require too many staff for both Kylo and her to comfortably squeeze into his apartments, what with the royal wardrobers and cosmeticians and manicurists and hairdressers that will be required for each of them.

 _And likely the royal cordwainer and his assistant. Might as well invite the bloody cook and scullery maids to be here, too_ , Kylo thinks grumpily.

In addition to the virtual legion of staff needed to ready the royal couple for their Coronation, Rey’s regalia requires an armed guard: The cloth-of-gold robes are so priceless they make his grandmother’s rubies look like cheap costume jewelry in comparison.

He figured it would be a nice gesture of peacemaking, giving her such a valuable treasure that not-so-subtly honors her blood-of-gold. But even the riches of the galaxy are not enough to deter the obstinate woman from being difficult once she’s set her mind on it.

His mood sours as he recalls the prior evening’s conversation, when he revealed the extravagant gift in hopes she would be so overawed she might overlook a few less savory details about the upcoming ceremonies.

He ought to have known better than expect Rey to be appeased with lavish gifts when she could stubbornly focus on matters beyond her control, instead.

She screeched loud enough for Phasma to come running when he casually informed her that, as per protocol, she would need to expose _all_ of her mating bites to the High Priest during the ceremonial anointing. 

“I’m not exposing _anything_ to him!” she’d cried with belligerent vehemence after he confirmed _yes_ , even the bite on her upper thigh would need anointing, and _no_ , she was not permitted to object.

“But! Everyone will _see_ me!”

“That’s rather the point, my dear.” He’d only grown more exasperated when he realized he will also have to beg permission to put on her collar, since in doing so, he will inevitably be required to touch her.

Not for the first time he curses his impulsive tongue.

If she declines permission, not only will it cause a massive disruption and no small degree of very public discomfiture, but it will also most certainly provoke all kinds of awkward questions, not the least from the High Priest himself. Plus, Kylo will need to invent a reason for Snoke to do the collaring, which will surely appear odd, not to mention it will undoubtedly set off Rey’s temper. Especially if she’s already putting up a fight over such an inconsequential thing as Snoke anointing her mating bites.

She’s been arguing with him all morning about the blighted collar, and he can’t very well tell her if she doesn’t get one, then she’ll still be very much under the mercies of the Church. Snoke won’t hesitate to step in, particularly after she ran off to give birth on some backwater planet, forcing Kylo to chase her down – an event which Kylo has no doubt Snoke will interrogate him over most painstakingly at the very next opportunity.

Snoke has been hinting Rey’s recent flight – or recent so he thinks – indicates an instability of mind that might be rectified through ecclesiastical intervention. He went so far as to suggest she ought to be permanently removed to a Sithian convent under the guardianship of the Church. And while Kylo recalls her threatening to do just such a thing eons ago, right after he’d captured her on his flagship, he suspects any attempt to separate her from Hope will result in fulminating disaster the likes of which anyone has ever witnessed.

Kylo is prepared to deal with Snoke, though less so with Rey.

Just one more reason to reenact the Old Laws the instant his crown is upon his head.

And Rey needs a collar around her neck sooner rather than later to secure Kylo’s claim to _sanctum iure,_ a particular policy under the Old Laws that prevents outside interference between mated Alphas and Omegas in regard to religious indoctrination and matters of faith.

Under the Old Laws, Omegas become inviolable property. The Laws will suit his needs doubly so now that Hope is born and Snoke is sniffing around again. Not only will Kylo be granted nearly limitless power of sovereignty, his original goal, but he will also secure a solid means to protect his family from the grasping hands of the Church when the time comes–

He sighs, weary and wrought with frustration. 

Snoke isn’t wrong about Rey. She is very much a symbol of piety and plays a role of great religious significance to a great many people, given her title of goddess and Golden Blood status; if he does not get her under his direct control, literally and symbolically, then Snoke could force the point she belongs to the Church as much as to Kylo.

Hence the necessity of the collar. Which she adamantly opposes.

 _Dammit_ , why can’t she cooperate for once in a Knotted Moon?

Thinking of the Knotted Moon temporarily distracts him, and he wonders how she’s going to handle her next heat. She’s too soon from childbirth for the moon to affect her tonight, but surely the next full moon will have an effect. True, it will only be a soft heat, since she’s just given birth and is still breastfeeding, probably not even enough to send him into rut. Still, he hasn’t put his hands on her for a woefully long time, and gods, how he longs to. Sharing quarters with her and a bed only seems to provoke this yearning, and it’s made him rather sullen and cantankerous these past few days.

A deep ache forms in the pit of his gut when he thinks of the last time he touched her and the resultant hell he’d brought crashing down upon them both…but just then he hears Hope stirring awake, and he decides if Rey isn’t coming to them, then they shall go to her.

“It’s _not_ going to work, and I don’t have anything else to wear!”

Carrying the baby himself, Kylo skulks into her old apartments. Though he’s planning on ordering her rooms redone to accommodate Hope and a small army of nannies for those rare occasions when he and Rey are not available, for now the space suffices as a staging area for her preparations for the day.

The morning's agenda is simple enough: Have the baby christened, return to their respective quarters, eat a light breakfast, and dress for the Coronation. He was planning to order Hope placed under heavy guard for her nap while he crowns and collars his wife, but he decides he will not leave Hope out of his sight, and reminds himself to order Phasma and Mitaka to be at the ready and hold the child nearby through the ceremony, instead.

It will appease Rey, and besides, he would not waste the opportunity to show off his family. Particularly if his uncle or mother happens to be watching.

He has donned his best morning coat and a crisply pressed linen shirt and Hope looks utterly precious in her little christening gown. She also wears a freshly changed diaper – Kylo’s rapidly become something of an expert with the things, gods save him – and he privately refuses to believe anyone else is fit to accomplish the task of changing them as efficiently as he can, although he doesn’t mention his occasional employment of magic to his wife, despite how it seems to help.

It seems Rey isn’t quite ready yet, though they are bordering on outright lateness.

“What’s not going to work?” he queries. From the back she looks quite lovely and he can’t see anything at all amiss, until–

She turns and glares, gesturing dramatically at her bosom, which swells magnificently from the very tight bust of her morning gown.

_Where in the name of god’s bloody knot did those come from?_

She flings a hand at his slack-jawed expression and snaps to Phasma, “Ex- _actly_!”

He jiggles the baby to cover a sudden surge of desire so overpowering he worries it will manifest itself quite _problematically_ on this, ostensibly the most important day of his life.

Well. If not important, then at least the most public.

He frowns at his wife's heaving décolletage, unable to look away. “Our court is waiting to view the royal offspring, and we’re running quite late. By the time we taste our breakfast it will be dinnertime, if we do not hurry. And we cannot miss the Coronation, as much as I know you want to.”

She merely scowls and he hefts the princess to his shoulder, feigning fatherly confidence though he still worries he might break her somehow. He gives the baby a light jounce and returns Rey’s stare as evenly as he can.

Rey turns back to the mirror and mutters acidly, “Don’t overexcite her, my lord, or she’ll vomit all over you.”

Vomit might be a touch overstating it. Hope’s newest trick seems to be spitting up, especially if she’s moved around too much, although Kylo has to take Rey’s word for it, since Hope has been perfectly behaved on his watch. He’ll never say it aloud, but he is secretly convinced Rey is just being theatrical.

“Stuff and nonsense, the child has the digestion of a sarlacc,” he quips. “Just like her mother.” He croons this last _very_ quietly to Hope, however, so the mother in question doesn’t clobber him. A vase of flowers sits near her dressing table, far too close for comfort to Kylo’s jaded eye. He recalls the woman’s astonishingly good instincts for aiming the blasted things at his head; although perhaps she’ll forgo outright violence so long as he keeps Hope within reach.

“I must insist you hurry, my dear…”

Rey sputters, suddenly agonized and pleading, “I can’t! I _can’t_ go out in front of everyone looking like…” Her lip trembles, and the sight makes his chest hurt. He glowers. 

“Like what?” he growls, trying and failing to remain stern under the sure glimmer of tears in her eyes. Apparently women fresh out of childbirth are excruciatingly sensitive creatures, and his default mode of blustering intimidation and fearsome threats are no match for Rey’s logic-defying emotions.

“…like…like a _thala siren_!”

He’s about to ask how the bloody hell she even knows what a thala siren is, positive she’s never actually encountered a sea cow in real life, when she cries and hurls herself onto the bed.

Whereupon she starts sobbing – _loudly_. Kylo releases a heavy exhale when Hope’s bottom lip begins to quiver, as well.

_Perhaps a change of tactics…_

“Rey, darling, you look utterly glorious,” he soothes. “Anyone who stands in the same room as you will surely glow under the secondhand light of your radiance.”

 _Ha, I can wax quite poetic when the occasion calls for it,_ he thinks smugly, though he doesn’t believe himself to be lying at all. Motherhood does suit her rather splendidly. He sneaks another stealthy glance at her chest, currently smashed into the bedcovers and at very great risk of spilling out the top of her gown altogether.

She sniffs. “Really? You think I look all right? You’re not just saying that?”

“Of course I’m not just saying that. You are truly quite, quite lovely.” He injects a fair bit of sincerity into his voice, sending a tiny encouraging thread through their bond so she knows he means it. Perhaps this kind overture is weak of him, to show such softness in the middle of their embattled marriage, but he needs all the help he can get at this point. Surely a small, tender act will–

She turns back to the crook of her arm and weeps openly. Distraught.

He shifts Hope to his other side, intending to get a bit closer so Rey can scent him and perhaps draw some comfort…when _it_ happens.

A horrible, violent belch erupts from his daughter – a truly shocking sound to emerge from such a tiny thing – and the baby’s aim is impeccable, frighteningly like her mother’s, as a hot, chunky flood of regurgitated breastmilk spatters his neck and oozes down the front of his jacket and under the collar of his shirt.

“Good gods!” he roars, holding the baby at arm’s length and gagging slightly at the sickly sour scent and disgusting, squelchy sensation dripping warmly over his skin. Dirty nappies are one thing, but _this_...he can feel a vile squirming at the back of his throat and vaguely realizes it's nausea. 

“I _told_ you!” Rey wails, clambering off the bed in a huff.

“How much did you feed her earlier?” But the very instant the words leave his mouth, he knows he’s made a rather monumental error.

Her eyes flash pure wrath and she bellows, her voice increasing in volume with every word, “Well, apparently _too_ much, since I’m such a freakish sea cow!”

Even as she bawls the words, his eyes widen in slight panic as a sudden, not-so-mysterious wetness seeps through the bodice of her gown in two expanding damp circles until the fabric is soaked through.

Rey yelps and clutches her chest, and Phasma bustles forward.

“It’s all right my lady, it’s just the coming Knotted Moon setting everyone’s hormones off. We’ll find something else for you to wear…” 

And with all the commotion, Hope begins to yowl wholeheartedly, not to be outdone by her parents’ hollering.

Kylo supposes this is fair. It is, after all, her christening day and she should receive a reasonable portion of the attention, since she’s at the very center of all this chaos.

Somewhat worse for wear and a bare twenty minutes later, all three of them emerge from the royal apartments in their second-best morning clothes. Two of the royals stomp together through the small gallery in high dudgeon, while the tiniest one lies fast asleep in her father’s arms, having worn herself out from all the kerfuffle.

Kylo leads their little parade into the Great Hall for the thankfully short ceremony.

He can feel Rey taking stock of the changes in her absence and he does not miss her horrified reaction when she sees the magical floor for the first time since-

His heart thuds, too, but he reigns in his reaction and takes his place next to the High Priest, who awaits them in full regalia at the foot of the throne.

A few high-ranking courtiers have been permitted to watch, and Kylo casts a quick glance over them. Only now does he notice how his court seems to have taken on an edge in Rey’s absence, as if without her softening influence and sterner moral strictures, they’ve fallen back into old habits. The ladies’ gowns are more daringly cut, even for morning, and suddenly Rey’s cleavage seems almost modest in comparison, though Kylo’s thoughts are anything but.

In fact, he can’t tear his eyes away from the softly swelling mounds, though he keeps his staring covert. But oh, how he would give his grandmother’s rubies for the chance to slide his tongue up one side and down the other. He would make sure every freckle receives proper consideration before tugging a luscious, dusky nipple into his mouth with an exquisitely gentle suck, and _gods, what does she taste like, I wonder? Sweet, like heaven, I’ll wager._

He always assumed himself to be a man who appreciated the view of a woman’s backside above all else, and hers is fine, indeed, but damn if his little Omega’s cleavage isn’t the most enticing, alluring sight. And dammit, the front of his coat is cut far too high for him to be lingering on these sorts of imaginings. He will surely develop a thoroughly _inappropriate_ and visible reaction, but her scent, _fuck_ , it’s delicious.

Biting his cheek, he tries to focus on Snoke’s droning recitation of the Church’s catechisms. Rey’s scent turns slightly hostile when the old priest holds out his hand for Kylo’s dagger – a motion Kylo almost misses, so distracted is he by his wife’s glorious bosom.

Taking the dagger, Snoke pricks the tiniest drop from the heel of Hope’s bare foot, so expertly done the baby hardly squawks – a fortuitous sign, and surely attributable to her Hellborn status – but Kylo must forcibly withhold a growl, nevertheless, at the sight of his daughter’s blood. He cannot refrain from exchanging a scowl with Rey, practically reading her mind.

_Yes, I feel it too, and I swear to the gods I did not expect him to actually draw her blood._

His brow creases sternly, giving her the slightest indication to hold her tongue.

Most christenings forego a bloodletting of any kind for a more representational gesture, and if he’d suspected this event was to be any different, Kylo never would have passed his dagger over to Snoke. But before he can work himself into a proper fury over the infringement, Snoke is already handing the dagger back to Kylo.

“And have you determined a suitable appellation for the child on this day?” Snoke intones in his not-unpleasant voice.

“Yes, Your Excellency,” Kylo replies, still rattled and nearly calling him “master” instead of using formal address as the etiquette of the occasion requires. He takes a breath and stares at Rey, announcing, “We would name her Makaria, Goddess of Blessed Death, and heiress to our throne.” 

The name is a gamble since Rey refused to discuss the christening once she discovered Kylo’s immovable stance on collaring her.

Her frown deepens but she remains blessedly quiet.

His choice of name is deliberate, meant to reinforce Hope’s lineage as descended from himself, Hades, but also to mollify Snoke into believing the child will be fully handed over when the time comes, although Kylo has no intention of doing so. 

Regardless, he must name her his heir if he is to claim his crown. Technically, the Church will not be able to assert full rights to her personage, since she will be required to rule someday. In the event of his incapacitation or untimely death before she is old enough, she becomes essentially, property of the State. Theoretically, this puts her under Rey’s guardianship ahead of the Church’s, but he is well aware if Rey is declared unfit in any way, then Hope will go to the Church anyhow, regardless of Kylo’s bargain.

_Which is why my House must make a clean break of it…when the time is right._

A sliver of deep unease pricks him, and he wonders once again why Snoke is so interested in Kylo handing over the child at such a young age. Some of his disturbed emotions must cross his face, and too late Kylo perceives his master’s double-edged censure.

He covers his apprehension, stating woodenly, “We would hope she will carry on in our own holy path and so pass along our teachings to future generations. I would commit her to be raised most devoutly in the Church.”

This appeases Snoke, although Rey seethes beside him. When Kylo catches her glance, her eyes gleam pure fire and the lights in the Hall flicker… _distinctively_.

Once again, Kylo debates the wisdom of bringing her back to Coruscant. The seat of his power, yes. But though she doesn’t fully know it yet, it is also very much the center of hers, as well.

And there's not a chance in hell he's telling her.

Hope’s christening went off without any disasters, thank the gods. And Rey finds herself far too busy all of a sudden, stuffing down a hasty breakfast before feeding Hope and turning the baby over to Phasma for a changing and a nap. Rey and Kylo repair to their respective rooms to be primped and prodded and fussed over for several endlessly tedious hours.

All too soon, Rey has donned her gorgeous coronation robes – made from cloth-of-gold and so rich they require a constant guard – and once again she is led through the small gallery, slower this time, as her robes are encrusted with several fortune’s worth of priceless gems and are therefore quite hefty, past the disturbingly altered floor of the Great Hall, and out into the blinding-bright sunshine to take her place beside _him_ on the palace steps. Far below, the streets are crammed with spectators, who cheer uproariously when they see her. 

_They still believe I will save them._

Grudgingly, she plays along with the pomp and ceremony, but only for Hope’s sake at this point. Yes, Kylo seems to have mellowed slightly upon their return to Coruscant, but she knows what he is capable of, and she will never forget it again. If she does not comply here and now, she is well aware he is perfectly able to demolish everything in his path and ruthlessly hold Hope hostage to enforce her compliance.

Despite his monstrous ways, he appears tremendously handsome in his royal regalia. He is clean-shaven, and his hair has grown terribly long in Rey’s absence to fall in thick, luxurious waves well past the gorget around his collar.

He’s traded his usual scarred, black battle armor for something more ceremonial, though it is still black as night. From the sharp spikes on his shoulder pieces flows a cape trimmed in spiny black vulptex fur, an unheard-of extravagance. The cape and armor make his shoulders appear miles wide and lend a regal air to his countenance. The dramatic ensemble is finished off with a massive chain set with pigeon’s blood cabochon rubies, each the size of a small plum, draped over the breastplate. If the weight of her robes is heavy, she can only imagine the combined weight of his armor, jewels, and cape, not to mention the enormous broadsword in the scabbard strapped at his hip.

Surprised, she eyes it covertly, as she’s never seen the weapon before, though she's heard of it. Worked into the hilt is a skull with glinting rubies for eyes – blood red, of course – and flames twisting down the grip to form a stylized crossguard. The pommel holds a massive black diamond, cut into a perfect sphere to resemble the Black Eye of Death, and Rey recognizes the historic blade.

_The Death Star._

It was Darth Vader’s sword, and once Luke Skywalker’s inheritance before Vader disowned him. The High Priest must have brought it from the vaults of Mustafar.

It is truly a beautiful weapon and fitting for one named God of the Dead. The sword’s scabbard has been worked in such a way that it appears to ripple like fire, like hell, and another rush of dread sinks into her skin at the connotation.

She is thankful for the extremely generous cut of her own robes, though trepidation threatens to overwhelm her when the High Priest begins his ritual preparations for the anointing, droning in a strange, oddly familiar language that draws more chills down her spine.

At some unspoken order – she has no idea what’s going on – Kylo stretches out a palm and Snoke slices a deep cut into the meat of his hand. He does not flinch, although her stomach turns when she feels the sting of the cut through their bond.

The skies are clear, but a deep rumble of thunder quakes through the palace, all the way down the cracked steps to the awed onlookers below. The air grows cool and Rey shivers and frowns. He promised no more hellraking, and she watches the skies for any signs of it. But he does nothing more sinister than extend his hand to be bandaged by a waiting attendant while Snoke holds out a little bowl and swirls Kylo’s blood with a few lazy rolls of his wrist.

The bowl looks very much like it was crafted from a human skull, and Rey’s stomach turns again. She wishes she had not gobbled her breakfast in such a hurry.

Snoke uses his thumb to dribble a bit of bloody oil over either of Kylo’s temples.

Discreetly, she glances to Mitaka, who stands off to the side and holds Hope fast asleep. She finds herself grateful her husband insisted on the child’s attendance and bolsters herself.

Her ears are ringing at the noise and the smells and the humidity and she’s trying to pay attention, but her robes are too bloody heavy. She's even having trouble mustering guilt over how today's events will impact Leia...and the Resistance.

_I'm supposed to be tearing down the damned monarchy, not joining it._

She resumes watching the masses of people below.

_It is out of my hands now. I've done everything I can and whatever comes next...whatever the future holds, I have Hope, if nothing else._

Finally, Snoke motions for Kylo to sit in the gloriously carved and gilded chair centered at the top of the steps. In his resonant voice, the High Priest decrees his titles among which is added the strange term _Gravewalker_. Rey has a sneaking feeling this designation is a result of his hellraking all those months ago.

Briefly, she wonders why His Holiness, Imperial Bishop Palpatine, is not here to conduct the Coronation, but her attention is captured fully when Snoke lifts Kylo’s crown and sets it upon his head.

The thing is fascinating, fashioned entirely out of Mandalorian _Beskar_. A ring of horned skulls forms the base, with long, spiky horns from each skull making a tall coronet. Each skull has blood red rubies inset into the eye sockets and is snarling, open-mouthed, to reveal long, pointed fangs. The center skull, larger than the others, has glittering fire opals for eyes and sneers like a demon. The crown is unrelieved by fur or padding or anything to lend the object softness or detract from what it is: A symbol of the Underworld. It is a cruel work of art, like the _Death Star_ , hearkening death and destruction, beautiful and menacing at the same time. 

Kylo remains austerely unmoving until Snoke is finished. Suddenly, it is her turn and her stomach flips wildly.

His eyes blaze into hers, and she can feel him wielding his compulsion as violently and as surely as the heavy sword at his side can shear through flesh and bone.

Unprepared for it, she hardly twitches when Snoke’s touch at the back of her neck indicates his blessing on her mating bites.

The scent of Kylo’s blood wafts to her nose and she swallows again, overcome by a brief moment of lust so intense her knees shake. He stares stoically forward, not watching, as is appropriate for the occasion. Though she catches a surprising twist of animosity through their bond.

And not for her. For the High Priest.

It rattles her, this. Why does he care if his filthy master touches her? He’s made it perfectly clear over the past days, practically from the moment they landed, he wants nothing more than to snap a collar around her neck. And yet. He does not radiate smug satisfaction, only a resigned determination to see this through.

“Anywhere else?” the High Priest purrs after daubing the back of her neck with his withered index finger. Rey chokes down her revulsion for the old man’s unctuous sarcasm and pulls the skirt of her robe aside to reveal the scandalous length of her naked thigh. Her robe has been cut in such as way as to require minimum disturbance, slitted high, but voluminous, and she is grateful for the foresight of whoever designed the garment. The old priest’s eyes gleam as if he knows precisely how humiliating she finds this procedure and relishes her discomfort all the more. She lifts her chin and stares him down.

“Just this one, Your Excellency,” she states firmly, daring him to do his worst.

For a moment she wonders if her attitude has wandered too far into the realm of open defiance, but he only mutters a vaguely aloof, “Indeed.”

He smears his finger into his foul bowl – yes, she’s positive it’s a human skull – then over the mark high on her inner thigh, and she grits her teeth at his unfamiliar touch, brief, respectful, even, but offensive, nonetheless.

Her husband is doing a masterful job of shielding his temper from showing in either his scent or expression. But he cannot hide it from their bond. 

_How curious._

While she ponders this, the High Priest speaks a few unintelligible words of blessing.

“We may proceed," he says, ignoring her and speaking only to Kylo.

She spies a small cushion on the ground beside his chair and knows it is meant for her to kneel on so he might perform the task of collaring her.

He looks truly all-powerful seated thus. Elegant, and strong, and brutal. 

_My Alpha._

He could probably use magic to do it without touching her if he really wanted to, but she senses this would be a faux pax, especially in front of the High Priest.

“You may kneel, Omega,” he commands with quiet authority. Shame burns her cheeks at his use of her designation in such a public place. But she glances to Mitaka nearby, holding Hope, and strengthens her resolve.

She kneels in what she hopes is a decent imitation of obedience, bowing her head so she doesn’t have to look at the gloating victory sure to be sparking in his eyes. She feels the weight of a crown placed gently upon her head and hears Snoke’s decree to the masses below.

Kylo murmurs, “It is styled after your sigil. I had it commissioned shortly after… _after_. In readiness for this day.” He pauses, then continues, almost politely, “You may examine it at your leisure when this ceremony is finished. I hope you like it.”

Surprised, she blinks up at him and finds only sincerity on his face and before she thinks better of it replies, “Thank you, my lord.”

Only when he wings a brow upward, rolling his eyes suggestively in the direction of his crown, does she realize her gaffe, and his teasing in the middle of this of all things throws her entirely off. She barely holds back a laugh and mumbles, “Gods _dammit!"_ His brow rises higher, making her unbelievably flustered as she desperately tries to recall her lessons in addressing nobility. "I meant, er, thank you, Your Majesty? Shit. _Imperial_ Majesty! Sorry!”

Heat floods her face when he hides a grin with a flare of nostrils and a pursing of lips. Clearly her awkwardness amuses him, though now she wants to smile, too. She just cursed in front of the High Priest during a sacred ceremony, only seconds after being crowned Empress and accidentally addressing the new Emperor by a lower title.

Never one to waste an opportunity for advantage and still riding the crest of humor between them, he asks very quietly, “May I?”

She knows what he is asking, and she does not want to give it.

_He's already getting everything he wants and…it's so unfair._

But the High Priest looks on with too much interest and she wants to shrink away from his penetrating stare. Some malignant force she cannot describe is at play here.

_Danger. There is danger here._

“Please?” Kylo murmurs over the delay. His eyes glimmer with warning and something else…as if he’s trying to convey a message, very cautiously.

And she perceives he is trying to protect her, somehow. It’s fleeting, but there, solid, and clear.

_A threat. He’s trying to keep me safe from his master._

Without hesitation, she whispers a soft acquiescence and exposes her neck for him, as calmly and regally as she is able so he can do what must be done.

But her heart thunders when he gently assures her, "It will be all right. I swear it."

She does not regret trusting him, but she has a momentary flare of temper at the sight of the chain resting beside a delicately crafted collar, both studded with fire opals and engraved with tiny flames.

The fine hairs on her nape stand on end when the collar snaps gently into place, the cold metal contrasting fiercely with the warmth of his touch. The front of the collar has a ring through which he attaches one end of the opal-encrusted chain. The other end he clips to his belt with a gentle but decisive click, and she has never felt so betrayed and simultaneously protected and… _owned_.

Before she has time to dwell on it, and obviously still under the assumption of her recently granted permission, Kylo lifts her to stand unresistant at his side. She tells herself she actually _needs_ his assistance because her dratted robes weigh a ton.

The crowd below roars, and she catches shouts of “Long live Lady Phoenix! Long live Persephone!” among chants of approbation for the newly crowned Emperor. There are so many people, many more than that fated day of her first arrival here. She catches glimpses of the red of the Omicrons’ armor as they weave through the crowd, and she knows more are acting in an undercover capacity to ensure the crowds do not surge out of control. Kylo could easily blast them all with his nasty hellraking if needed, Rey is sure, but so far he seems to intend to keep his word.

His hand tightens on hers, as if he is reluctant to let go. Once he relinquishes his hold, he will need to ask permission to touch her again and perhaps he knows she will not grant it.

And so he does not release her hand, but instead raises it in his to the crowd below, before drawing it to his mouth to plant a searing hot kiss over the back and turning gracefully to guide her through the open doors of the Great Hall. He moves them regally to the throne, and Rey tries not to stare, though the sight of the floor bothers her greatly. He guides her up the steps of the dais to his throne, and as one, they turn to survey the group gathered below.

For a long minute, neither he nor she can take their eyes from the Hall’s magical floor. No one can guess what the alteration means but for the two of them.

He turned it dead black that night, made it go swirling with inky shadows until all the light was obliterated. Rey vividly recalls when it happened, the screaming of the guests, the horror. And him. He’d been…a true monster, emerging in his full powers to wreak havoc on the city and its people, not to mention terrorize her.

But later, the floor had changed yet again. It is still dark except for a malevolent red-gold thread of ominously pulsing light running east to west, interrupted by a startling explosion of fiery orange and red at the end, near the small gallery entrance. Beside her, Kylo stiffens and finally releases his grip with a slight squeeze.

He must sit, but though her gown is unbelievably heavy, she refuses the smoldering invitation in his eyes to avail herself of the only available seat – his lap, evidently – and instead deigns to stand beside his throne and observe the proceedings from there. Phasma hovers, having circled around and entering discreetly through the small antechamber behind them, and passes a sleeping Hope to Kylo. As she retreats back through the rear exit, she gives Rey a wink which so astonishes her she nearly giggles.

Hope is bundled in extra blankets, which ought to pad her from the unforgivingly hard armor Kylo wears, but Rey wishes the sleeves of her robe weren’t so cumbersome, so she might take the child instead. Part of her wants to stomp her foot and demand they take equal turns with the baby, especially since he’s had her for most of the day so far, other than for feedings.

 _He'd probably do those too, if he could, the_ _beast,_ she sulks to herself.

From the corner of her eye, she watches Snoke’s Praetorians lead the High Priest into the dining hall to await the feast, and another ripple of unease washes over her.

Her guards, or rather her _gown’s_ guards, take their places discreetly behind her and the throne, and Kylo gives the faintest signal to begin the proceedings.

She's already bored and annoyed and far too overwhelmed by her own thoughts and quite uncomfortable. Still, if she wishes to sit, she must either crowd onto his lap, which would be most unseemly, or sit on the floor at his feet, which her pride refuses to allow her to do…or she must remain standing throughout the ceremonial presentation of the High Court, where each of the nobles in attendance promenades before the crown and genuflects as their name and rank or title is announced. 

_Ugh. This is exhausting._

Her stomach growls and Kylo chuckles. Suddenly she wants to smack the ugly crown off his arrogant head.

As if he hears her thoughts, he murmurs, “Careful, my love, I can smell your temper. Never fear, the feast comes soon enough.”

Bitingly, she hisses back, “I’d rather get out of these bloody robes, they weigh as much as a happabore.”

His grin widens and he retorts wickedly from the corner of his mouth, “I’m happy to offer my assistance in whatever you require, my dear. You’ll be sure to let me know, won’t you?”

The sinfully appealing curve of his lips sends a long-dormant thrill of desire through her, only agitating her further.

_I thought he was still furious with me. Why is he in such a bloody good mood?_

In his heavy armor and holding Hope with such perfect posture, he cannot be any more comfortable than Rey, surely. She shakes her head, confounded, and returns her attention to the court. After an eternity, Admiral Ackbar, the last of their courtiers finally presents himself with a flamboyant bow before meandering back to the main crowd.

As if this is the signal everyone has been waiting for, Kylo stands, and the entire congregation bows or curtsys as he leads her by her chain into the small antechamber behind the throne, followed by her guards.

Ignoring the guards, Kylo mutters, “You will be escorted to your rooms and you may change and refresh yourself and bring Hope back out to the feast. I’m afraid it will be a long one, and quite formal, although I daresay Phasma will have a light repast waiting for you to tide you through.” 

Phasma takes Hope and mutters, "Indeed my lady. I'll take the princess to your, er, to the royal apartments straightaway." 

Waiting until she's gone, Kylo licks his lips and gives her an earnest, appealing half-smile as if he wants to say something, as if the morning's events and their more recent _understanding_ cracked the mutual icy façade between them. As if they might form a tenuous truce.

Her heart skips a beat when he stares at her mouth and whispers for her ears only, “Thank you. For not making a scene over the…” His eyes flicker to her collar and his mouth tightens, almost painfully. “…just…thank you.”

Flabbergasted by the sincerity, not to mention his second demonstration of genuine politeness in under an hour, she gawps and chirps automatically, “You’re quite welcome!”

His mouth upturns into an almost smirk and his scent is so heavenly she inhales more deeply than is strictly necessary. But then he unclips the chain from her collar and wraps it slowly around his bandaged fist. The chain _and_ the collar belong to him, she reminds herself.

 _As do I, apparently_.

A hot blush climbs over her face, from her collar to her crown, and she scurries out the exit and away from his too-knowing gaze before she says anything else.

It doesn’t even occur to her to ask why he does not accompany her.

Or what he might be planning on doing instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the lack of smut, I hope you all enjoyed this one. There's actually a bit of important info in here, so I hope ya'll are paying attention because it's going to come up later. *wink* (That's my Professor Amy voice.)
> 
> It was quite fun to imagine their Coronation, the clothes and jewels and pomp, as well as all the behind-the-scenes shenanigans for the royal event. And for anyone who has ever dealt with a finicky infant, I know you sympathized with Kylo getting barfed on. ;) I may just have pulled that whole, hilariously disastrous scene from several of my own real-life experiences...
> 
> I had originally intended to include another section of All Hell's Eve, but with this chapter already being so long, I opted to save it for next chapter.
> 
> I've been spending quite a bit of time working on future scenes and tweaking the outline and...we have some good stuff coming up, I think. I'm very excited to get more of this out soon!
> 
> I can't begin to tell you all how very much I appreciate your reading and kudosing and commenting on this story. It's really quite an honor, and not a single day goes by when I'm not grateful to be a part of this fandom. 
> 
> XOXO, and I'll be replying to comments soon! *blows kisses*
> 
> P.S. I had to go back and reread some stuff, and research some stuff, and you can imagine my horrified embarrassment when I realized I've been spelling Dryden Vos's name with two "ss"es all this time! JEEEZ, take away my fricking Star Wars fangirl card, why dontcha? LOL.
> 
> P.P.S. We're going back to the dark after this, promise. 💀💀💀


	35. Drawing Fire

# Chapter Thirty-Five – Drawing Fire

Her waits until he is entirely alone before glancing in the mirror to ensure his crown is well in place for the second part of the day’s Coronation ceremonies.

He intends to reinstate the Old Laws here and now while his court is assembled and while Snoke is still in the palace. The High Priest’s presence will lend credence to his actions, as well as establish everyone’s rank _before_ the feast begins.

And during the feast, Kylo intends to make another, rather salient point to his mother and the so-called Free Systems of the Republic. Starting with Hosnia.

Grimly clenching his jaw, he exits the antechamber and returns to his throne, where, as expected, a small, carved escritoire has been placed within reach, along with his newly-forged royal seal – the Black Sun of his House – and a small sheaf of papers.

The papers themselves are a mere formality borne from tradition. Next to these is a holocron pad that functions similarly to a Dejarik board in that it communicates official information throughout the galaxy with a drop of blood to officialize. In this instance, Kylo means to use it to enact the legislation he’s been working on for months. This task was his sole distraction from the endless hours he spent hunting for Rey, and Mitaka only helped him finish preparing the reforms late last evening, securing the final draft with Kylo’s own blood so it cannot be tampered with.

The main court has been instructed to wait in the Great Hall, and only after Kylo seats himself do they rise from their bows and curtsies.

Kylo signs the laws without fanfare of any kind, more eager to be done with it than anything. Once he affixes his seal to the papers and submits a drop of blood to send his decree, he simply announces, “Let it be known the Old Laws of the Imperial Empire are heretofore restored by my word, unimpeachable and eternal, until the end of my House and Line.”

“All hail, His Imperial Majesty!”

“Thus begins a new era of peace. I am desirous of maintaining the ways of my ancestors, who ensured order, harmony, and prosperity through these hallowed Laws. Let any who would seek to grieve the rule of my Empire be brought to my throne for judgment most severe.”

“All hail!”

“I hereby claim full proprietorship over my domain, including every planetary system and soul living within the known worlds and beyond, as are mine by right of blood and sanctification through the Holy Church. Additionally, I claim you all as my loyal subjects and in so doing remind you to comport yourselves with the highest moral standards. Each and every one of you present today shall return to your homeworlds with full understanding of my expectations and awareness of the consequences of disobedience. Omegas, you will bring honor to your mates through reverent and cherished subservience. And Alphas, you will treat your properties as the sacred treasures they are, knowing it is I, in my generosity, who allows you to keep them. You will care for your property in my name and only with the most courteous and chivalrous intentions, being ever mindful of your conduct and its reflection upon my Royal House. Any fool who would besmirch my Name or Sigil by finding himself in violation of my Laws will be quickly and justifiably punished. I will not tolerate opposition, depravity, or corruption.”

“Yea, Alpha, Lord and Emperor!”

Abruptly, he reclines, and the congregation bows as one, then, as scripted, every mated Omega kneels on the cold floor to receive a collar. As arranged by his order ahead of time, each Alpha has brought one for his mate.

For the most part, Kylo senses a gravitas present here that was not evident just minutes ago when he collared Rey. And, while he did find their own ceremony rather poignantly charming, he is relieved his subjects are taking the matter quite seriously. Their somber acceptance of his first major rule of order will bolster his future attempts to break from the Church, since the Old Laws are designed to supersede the Church’s authority by decentralizing religious power and simultaneously reinforcing the rights of individual stewardship on behalf of the Crown, charging Alphas and Betas with the personal management of their property, whether material or otherwise.

The one fly in the ointment is, of course, the Lottery.

Kylo has debated with himself long and hard on the necessity of including it at all when he reinstates the Old Laws. Originally, this section of the Laws permitted the reorganization of “fruitful” segments of the population to be disbursed to other parts of the galaxy in need and thus ensure all systems were adequately populated to perpetuate the species. And to increase the chances more Golden Bloods would be born.

Genetically speaking, only those with Golden Blood can reproduce more, which is why Golden Bloods are traditionally taken at birth and mated into highborn families. Not only does it establish power, but it ensures power remains within the bloodlines of the ruling classes.

But it is not unheard of for outliers to pop up, like Rey, whose own humble and mysterious origins indicate, if not a likely royal bloodline from the wrong side of the sheets somewhere down the line, then a divine touch sanctioned by the gods and therefore equally significant.

Anyone with royal blood is suspected to carry the Golden Blood gene, and Kylo knows if this is true, the chance of conceiving a child with blood-of-gold is much higher if he mates with Rey again.

But although the Lottery System is a mechanism for ensuring continuity of the species, it also puts a most effective cudgel at Kylo’s disposal, should he need it to issue a threat.

Which happens to be the case with Hosnia and the other rebel systems.

And if those systems do not send delegates to surrender to their rightful Emperor by the next Coruscantian Knotted Moon, Kylo most certainly intends to deploy his new weapon.

Not only does the Lottery permit Kylo to enforce re-parceling on any system as he sees fit, it also legalizes the Imperial Crown’s right to redistribute up to half of any planetary system’s viable Omegas.

Even the threat of taking half can ravage families and communities.

It makes a rather effective warning. Or a dreadful punishment.

Although he privately hopes he won’t be forced to fulfill his ultimatum, the greater part of him worries how Rey will react, especially as she’s so often accused him of following in the despotic footsteps of his grandfather.

And while Kylo does not deny his grandfather went mad and acted rashly at the end, he knows too well how a man might be provoked beyond reason, if not from the madness of enduring unrequited love, then certainly from the pain of endless betrayal.

Shortly before his death, it was whispered Vader attempted a divination using the Great Hall’s magical floor, and in so doing predicted his own children would bring about the end of time. Of this, he would rave for hours, staring endlessly at the floor, ranting how he would be the next one to find _it_ , a way to cheat death, and that only one other had done so before.

He took action, putting a bounty on his children and very nearly succeeded in wiping them out. Captured by the notorious Hutt mafia, Leia Organa was imprisoned for a time, forced into slavery under the humiliation of a collar and chain. Her brother’s best friend, Han Solo, became involved and attempted a rescue but failed and was forced to spend months in a suppression chamber.

Intending to turn over the pair of Skywalkers to Vader as a matched set, Jabba the Hutt used his prisoners as bait, knowing Luke Skywalker's sister and best friend would be a powerful lure. But Luke managed to save them both with the help of Lando Calrissian, killing Jabba and escaping Vader's clutches.

And while Kylo is not unaware of the irony or even ungrateful to Lando for saving his parents and later aiding in Rey’s escape from Coruscant, he still finds himself greatly annoyed over how easily his former “uncle” treads on the wrong side of the law. Lando was always level-headed, if not a touch gregarious, but he would make a formidable ally if he were willing to swear allegiance to the First Order. 

Mostly, when he ponders his family's complex past, known now only through historic records and the long-dead stories overheard in his youth, Kylo most often dwells on whatever it was that cost Vader his sanity. Since the Great Hall’s floor has changed, he wonders if the vision that materialized on that hellish night almost a year ago is the same one that drove Vader into madness.

But Kylo Ren does not need to divine anything if he is to prevent the Great Hall’s floor from transforming from the mere warning it is now into a manifestation of another Great Devastation.

He knows what he has to do.

No matter what his mother believes or how she’s worked to thwart him, he cannot be the agent of destiny that brings about the end of time. He will not.

Not when he has so much to live for. Not when he has Hope.

And as much as he might hate to admit it to himself, not when he has Rey, even if only by the letter of the law, for now.

In all truth, the damned collar already itches at her skin, cold and hard and quite vexatious.

And though Rey can breathe just fine, she feels suffocated and claustrophobic. Briefly, she wishes she were back on Jakku, living a simple, unencumbered life, where the height of luxury was to borrow the abbot’s holocron pad and sneak off to a private corner of the convent with a skin of water and a hoarded treat from Leia’s most recent visit and read of other worlds and creatures and stories…but then she thinks of Hope and cannot truly imagine life without her.

Or _him_ , as much as it galls her to admit it.

With his words of thanks echoing in her ears, she returns to her chambers and takes off the heavy Coronation gown and her crown.

She has a few spare moments before she needs to feed Hope and she uses them to examine the crown, as her husband suggested. It is entirely different from what he commissioned for himself, and quite, quite lovely.

Where his crown is blunt and straightforward in its symbolism – a portent of all-consuming doom – hers leaves a bit of room for interpretation.

It is without doubt beautiful, delicate, and finely wrought. But a touch fearsome, too.

 _Is this how he sees me?_ she wonders, staring at the splendid object while Phasma brushes her hair.

If his crown is a harsh reminder of inevitable death and cold, dark power, then perhaps hers is an emblem of life and renewal.

Elegantly-styled gold and _Beskar_ work into intricate twists to form the outstretched wings of a phoenix to either side of her temple, and more gold and rose gold create flames around the base. Centered over her forehead sits the stylized body of her phoenix, similar to her sigil. She laughs, recalling sketching a hasty steelpecker to represent herself on a Dejarik board a million years ago. But this creature is graceful, and daunting, and austere somehow. Worked into the eyes are gleaming fire opals, and set into each point of the wings and flames encircling her head are rubies and more fire opals to lend the whole thing an appearance of a glittering dark inferno.

It's majestic and intimidating and she loves it, even though she knows she should not fall to the lure of material wealth.

It's just…if anyone in her past would have told her someday she would be crowned Imperial Empress of the Galaxy, and instead of rags for clothes and scraps of leather for shoes, she would wear a robe valued beyond price, and that the purest blooded nobles would bow to her in her palace, and that people would light candles in shrines to her and call her a goddess, Rey, a lonely orphan from nowhere, just a dirty scavenger girl, would have laughed and accused them of lying.

Kylo once offered to lay all the worlds at her feet, and her heart thumps wildly when she remembers just when.

_The night I betrayed him. I never should have swallowed that vile potion._

“Are you all right, Your Grace?” Phasma asks quietly.

It takes her half a second to remember _Your Grace_ is her new appellation, now. She stifles her sadness and smiles to Phasma in the mirror.

“Yes. Now, where’s Hope? I ought to feed her before ruining another dress today, don’t you think?”

They laugh together, and she pushes her woeful ruminations aside, especially when she hears Hope’s hungry squawking, just as cantankerous and demanding as her father is wont to be.

And later, having changed into something marginally more comfortable than her weighty Coronation robes, Rey feels more hopeful than she has in ages. True her husband is a monster, and she deplores wearing this collar, but if she treads carefully, perhaps she still might be able to use her influence to convince him to change his mind about the Old Laws.

After ensuring Hope is asleep, with a small army of nurses and guards watching over her and with Mitaka’s promise to send word right away if Rey is needed during the Feast, she makes her way through the small gallery with an entourage to escort her to the dining hall.

Phasma rejoins her halfway there, and the woman’s mood has darkened quite a bit.

Rey jests lightly, “Phasma, I know we’ve imposed far too much on you today with Hope, but I–”

“What?” Phasma seems beyond distracted. “Oh, no, Your Grace, my apologies. I am not at all put out over caring for Her Highness. It’s just…”

Oh, gods, it must be serious. She’s never seen Phasma so hesitant.

“What? What is it?” Rey stops in the middle of their parade, uncaring that a number of people are halted mid-procession behind her.

Phasma sighs, “He’s just now reinstated the Old Laws. And the Lottery, Your Grace.”

“He did _what?_ ” 

“It will not do to be late for His Imperial Majesty’s Coronation Feast.”

Rey takes a deep breath, then another, searching for the truth in Phasma’s cool blue eyes. And when she finds it, a deep, burning wrath fills her from head to toe.

_That knot-headed, arrogant pig. Just declared himself the literal owner of everything in the galaxy._

“You’re right, Phasma. We mustn’t be late for _His Imperial Majesty._ ” Rey bites down her sarcasm with difficulty since every Omicron in the hall is sure to be keenly listening to their exchange.

Nostrils flaring, jaw clenched, she marches to the dining hall, seething with militant fury.

_That’s what he was up to after sending me off. Didn’t want me around for knowing I’d make an appalling scene._

Carried by the momentum of her anger, she enters the hall a bit too quickly to be considered regal, only to find the entire High Court already assembled and waiting in lines at their tables.

She pauses and catches her bearings, as she must make her grand entrance alone.

Instead of one low table extending from the high table, there are four, though the high table is raised above the others still. She glances to her courtiers, every one of them bowed with respect, and notes they've all dressed in the colors of the day, mostly gold, like her, or black and red, like Kylo. 

Although the court seems to have taken their Empress's newly abundant bosom to heart and every lady present has her décolletage on full display, a solemnness lies heavy in the air. Apparently, this is _not_ an occasion where her courtiers will behave indecorously, Rey is relieved to note, though her relief quickly sours when she notices how many Omegas in the court now wear collars.

Cheeks flaming scarlet, she lifts her chin.

The carved chair from First Morning is back at the high table, and with a sinking heart, Rey realizes she cannot avoid his lap forever.

But as she approaches, she spies something even worse. A hassock at his feet, obviously meant for her.

Blistering offense mixes with her already furious mood and every light in the dining hall flickers ever-so-briefly.

Already seated, he shoots her an imperceptible leer, but through their bond she catches nothing but towering victory. 

As if he means to say " _your move, darling."_

Fine. If he’s going to be an ass about it.

It only takes one look at her eyes blazing angrily into his from across the hall.

_Fucking bloody gods’-knotted hell._

_She knows._

He’d rather hoped he’d be able to tell her in person after the fact, perhaps when they were alone in their rooms where she could rant to her heart’s desire, so long as it was behind closed doors.

She advances with grace and dignity, but it does nothing to lessen the boiling indignation radiating from her. Several candles flare conspicuously as she passes them, and Kylo wonders how he’s going to appease her through the lengthy day.

Or if it’s even possible.

When she reaches his place at the high table, she bows low, unintentionally displaying a delightful plenitude of cleavage that instantly makes him salivate.

 _Someone’s expanded her skills at curtsying,_ he almost ruminates aloud, amused despite the potentially explosive situation.

“Head up, my love,” he murmurs. Obediently, her head tilts up, but when her eyes meet his, he almost – _almost_ – forgets what he’s supposed to do. Thankfully, his hesitation is unnoticeable, and he smoothly clips one end of his jeweled chain to the ring at the front of her collar, flashing her the tiniest, wickedest grin. A challenge, though he might regret it later.

He leans back and rests his arms to either side of his chair, a casual movement that nonetheless emphasizes the shortish length of chain from her neck to his belt.

His eyes wander to the hassock beside him, clearly indicating she ought to take her rightful place at his metaphorical feet, though really it’s more at knee level. Still, the point is made, even if he wishes he had a way to convince her this is all for show because the High Priest is watching their every move.

She eyes the hassock with distaste and his heart begins to thud when her brow lifts the tiniest increment. And his pulse races when he realizes he has absolutely no idea what she’s going to do next.

So, he finds himself entirely surprised when, instead of seating herself on the little footstool beside him, she ignores the hassock altogether and plops unceremoniously into his lap with a grumpy huff.

While instinct may tell him to clutch her around the waist, he restrains himself and whispers, “Are you granting me permission, then?”

“Most certainly not,” she hisses through her teeth. “I simply refuse to sit at your feet like a dog and beg for table scraps. You…gods-knotted arse!”

“My gods, such language!” he admonishes, barely holding back an undignified bark of laughter. “Where in the devil did you learn about arse-knotting? Surely not from anyone in the palace, I hope?”

She humphs and shifts position, driving a shaft of undiluted lust directly into his gut.

He does his best to ignore it and gestures for the court to sit, mated Omegas taking Rey’s cue, much to everyone’s delight, and seating themselves in their partner's laps. There’s a brief shuffle and a few giggles, but everyone remains composed for the most part.

Of course, they’re on cushions on the floor, not in a chair for all to see with the High Priest right there, looking on for signs of weakness.

As he feared, this feast is going to be interminably long. And with her wriggling so delightfully on his thigh, he’s going to have a time of it, keeping his expression properly regal to match the formality of the occasion.

Kylo knows his wife is traitorous and merciless and tries to remind himself of this and steel himself against her charming, justifiable outrage. Even if he deserves such cold treatment for his abominable cruelty to her on All Hell's Eve and for all that came after, he tries to remind himself her own retaliation merits punishment of its own.

The woman did stab him in cold blood before fleeing Coruscant, pregnant with his heir, a possible Golden Blood.

True, she did not run to the Resistance, which would only have enraged him beyond imagining, and it is patently obvious she’s as deeply enthralled with their daughter as he is. And in retrospect she had good cause to fear him.

But, while these qualities may be slightly redeeming, he most certainly ought to know better than to indulge in a game of dare with someone who would surely prefer him to be very much dead right about now. Especially since he’s gone and done the one thing he knows for a fact she’s put her life on the line to avert.

"The Old Laws? And the Lottery?" she snarls, clearly infuriated. 

"Have I ever told you how utterly ravishing you look when you're angry?" 

He knows damned well he’s playing with fire, goading her and risking himself being captivated all over again by her charming temper and beguiling scent.

But, he’s growing _very_ distracted what with her luscious curves pressing against him, and he’s not entirely convinced she isn’t trying to actually drive him insane.

“You might try to stop wriggling so much, my dear, or we are going to find ourselves in a most embarrassing predicament, indeed,” he scolds lightly under his breath.

Acidly, she turns and glares. “Well you should have thought of that before!”

“I _did_ think of it," he reminds her evenly. "That’s why I had a hassock provided for your maddening little derriere to sit upon.”

“Well, I don’t care! Or can you not control your… _craven_ inclinations for even a few hours? I suppose it is too much to ask?”

“I wouldn’t be in such a state, I’m sure,” he spits in return, suddenly agitated, “if my wife's absence from my bed had not imposed nearly a year’s abstinence on me. Forgive me if I find your charms too alluring.”

He sits up, forcing her to either clutch at his shoulders or slide out of his lap altogether. The light of battle glimmers in her eyes, firing his own affronted disposition.

“I _did_ leave you, and you know _exactly_ why!”

“…left me for dead...” he says over the top of her hissed accusation. Something that looks suspiciously like remorse glints behind her eyes, but she hardens her expression before he can be sure.

"Well. You seem to be just fine, now. _Your Imperial Majesty._ "

Obstinately, her jaw locks shut, and she huffs, crossing her arms in every imitation of a toddler throwing a tantrum. This, for some twisted reason, pleases him immensely, and he tries to ignore Snoke's all-knowing perusal. The old man sits too far away to overhear them, and yet Kylo knows if Snoke suspects he is not in full control of his wife, the High Priest will certainly mention it later.

He decides honor is the better part of valor and changes the subject before their spat becomes noticeable to the rest of the court.

“How’s Hope?”

“Fine.”

"Why isn't she here?"

"Nap."

“Is she under guard? Did you feed her?”

“Yes.” Clearly, Rey intends to punish him with short, clipped answers. Exasperating woman.

His gaze drifts unwillingly to her chest, and he licks his lips.

_God’s bloody knot. How long is this feast supposed to go on?_

They’ve just begun serving the first course, a fragrant soup ladled from massive tureens to each individual diner in turn, so as to keep it warm. This process alone is going to take at least half an hour, and it’s nearly impossible to concentrate on anything at all with her plump bosom right under his nose and smelling so divine.

White-knuckled, he grips the arms of his chair and clenches his teeth together. Whenever she moves, the chain at her neck tugs at his belt and he shifts, awkwardly trying to alleviate some of the delicious pressure of her rounded hips rubbing against him.

Fuck. Perhaps the collar was _not_ one of his more spectacular ideas.

Then he catches it – the faintest trace of smugness chasing her resentment. And he realizes his little wife is still as devious as ever.

_What’s your game, little one?_

But when she wriggles against his semi-aroused cock for the fourteenth time in under a minute, the _game_ is perfectly obvious.

Revenge.

Ah. After many months of abstinence, he doesn’t need much encouragement. He as much as told her so, just now.

But…perhaps if he plays, too, it might alleviate some of the tedium and keep her distracted from his recent act of reinstating the Old Laws.

“Trying to make me crazed with lust, are you?” he mutters just low enough for her to hear. “That’s not very clever, is it?”

“W-what?” She sounds innocent enough. But he knows better.

She won’t meet his eyes. A sure sign she’s trying to hide something. Like guilt.

_Ha._

“How in the devil am I supposed to reach for my dinner without tipping you onto the floor? Either I’ll need to hold you in place or you’ll need to feed me…” He tugs his bottom lip between his teeth, not bothering to hide his desire.

Blood surges to his groin when her scent warms up.

But she merely offers a haughty reply. “Perhaps you might have had time to eat something earlier, as I did. If only you weren’t busy tearing apart the moral fabric of the galaxy and replacing it with your own depraved version of law and order.”

“Depraved? I suppose you would know all about how depraved I can be,” he breathes, deliberately sending warm air over her shoulder and refusing to become riled. “Now, as I recall, I _did_ promise… _something…_ what were the words exactly? Do you remember?”

He punctuates his question with a brief kiss to the back of her shoulder and she inhales an outraged breath.

“You _swore_ you wouldn’t put your hands on me…” She trails off when she sees it, the massive loophole he’s going to take advantage of for as long as he can get away with.

“Hmmm. My _hands_. That’s right. Anything else?” he purrs, kissing her again, closer to her neck this time, flicking his tongue over the sweetly-scented skin below her collar until he is very pleased to see goosebumps rise on her arms. “Are you cold, my darling? I confess I’m feeling rather warm.”

“Stop it,” she grits out, flustered.

“Oh…I don’t think I will. If _you_ want to make a scene in front of the High Priest and the extended court…” he whispers hotly in her ear, “by all means _do_.”

But he knows she won’t. If she were going to, she’d have done it already, and furthermore, it was her choice to sit in his lap even after he presented her with a perfectly logical alternative. It will appear ridiculous for her to back out now, not if she wants to maintain any sort of decorum at all. Any commotion she causes at this point will only improve his own standing and reduce hers.

True, it’s unfair, but he's not averse to extortion. 

He grins. Perhaps this feast won't be such a disaster, after all.

Either he’s finally going to get permission to put his hands all over her sweet little curves under the pretense of holding her in place for the next few hours…or she’s going to have to feed him bite by bite.

“Does it count if I put my hand on your dress, I wonder?” he murmurs against her shoulder until her toes curl from his warm breath heating her skin.

“Don’t even think about it,” she retorts, eyeing the servants approaching with the soup course.

_Gods, why does he have to smell so heavenly?_

A servant places a steaming bowl of soup before them and bows away, and for a moment Rey wonders if she made a mistake. They won’t even be tasting their soup for at least half an hour. No one moves to eat, however, and Rey wonders if they are awaiting some signal to begin _primum edere_.

She looks at him, the unspoken question on her tongue, and his eyes grow dark, capturing hers easily. He gives her a devilish wink and gestures to their soup with an imperious lift of his chin.

“Our turn, my darling. And please believe if any of that scorching-hot soup ends up in my lap, an equal amount will find its way down the front of your gown.”

She's about to argue with him, but he mutters, “Never mind. I’m sitting up,” and she has only enough time to scrabble rather inelegantly at his waist as he leans forward and reaches for his soup spoon, every eye in the hall on him.

To her astonishment, he lifts a spoonful with an elegant motion, leaning slightly to the side and sipping rather dramatically. The hall rings with silence but for his soft slurp and a delicate click when he sets his spoon back into place.

Then she understands. This act is significant. With nearly unlimited power and rank and title, he is indicating he has no fear in his own house from anyone present. _Anyone_ …including Snoke. Rey avoids looking at the old man, the only other diner at the high table, though far enough away to almost forget he's there. 

Kylo nods and this seems to signal the rest of the diners. From the lowest table, each courtier tastes his food in rank.

Music flows through the room, and everything is so terribly elegant and lavish and proper. It’s quite pompous but fascinating how each person is acutely aware of his turn, how everyone moves through the courses like a dance. While waiting their turn to taste their food, all the way up to the high table, jugglers and troupers make their way between the tables to entertain the court, some of them quite bawdily, and although the courtiers are well-mannered to the point of being reserved, the atmosphere lightens as the jokes grow raunchier.

“They’ll loosen up once the wine starts flowing,” Kylo informs her.

The hall fills with the muted sounds of hundreds of people dining and the jester near their table makes a few diners guffaw. Rey fights off several blushes as she is able to catch the meaning of several of the more ribald jests, a feat she would not have had the practical experience to accomplish several years ago.

Behind her, Kylo chuckles along and even laughs outright a few times, and the sound disturbs her altogether too much.

The collar disturbs her, too. It is warm from her skin, but it presses constantly against her scent glands and almost touches her mating gland at her nape, a constant reminder of _his_ touch, of the memory of his hand squeezing ever so lightly there. 

It takes her halfway through the fish course to notice Rose perched on Hux’s knee, far down at one of the lower tables. To her shock, Rose is heavily pregnant and wearing a collar, and unbound rage threatens to overwhelm her vision when she notices.

She would have caught it sooner, since Hux normally sits much higher at table, but Rey suspects the Old Laws may have affected his rank. Among so many higher born nobles, Hux’s place now falls close to the end of the far table.

 _You’re not good enough to lick Rose's mucky boots,_ Rey thinks venomously.

But Rose looks all right, and Hux…well, he looks like his usual supercilious bastardly self, but perhaps a touch mellower, although Rey can’t begin to imagine what he's put Rose through.

Just then, the red-haired man whispers something to Rose, and to Rey’s very great consternation, Rose turns and gives him the _fondest_ smile. Rey's mouth drops open as Rose's dark eyes sparkle at some private banter between the two of them. Her glance chances to meet Rey’s and color spills over her full, round cheeks. Hux’s gaze flashes up as he intercepts their exchange, though his thoughts remain hooded as ever. He mouths the words “Your Grace” and lifts his goblet in a silent toast, giving Rey a slight nod of respect to cover the odd moment.

Gob-smacked, Rey tries to smile an acknowledgement as any gracious sovereign would do – no mean feat, considering she’s thoroughly distracted, perched on Kylo’s sturdy thigh and doing her best not to slouch so she doesn’t press against all that lovely muscle at her back. It's suddenly quite warm in here. 

Panting, she curses herself and her temper for causing this uncomfortable situation. She glances to the hassock with longing.

Kylo, damn him, catches the look and immediately waves an Omicron over to remove it.

_Well, now you’re good and caught._

“It seems the rest of the court is well-pleased with their Empress’s alterations to the seating arrangements,” he mutters, so close it sends shivers skipping up and down her arms. “Whoever would have guessed Hux would play Lothario to that little spitfire maid of yours?”

“Haven’t you ever heard the term _opposites attract_?”

“Perhaps.” He’s staring at her mouth again, and warm, aching desire writhes inside her.

The court is only halfway through tasting this course, and Rey wonders if she can manufacture a pretext to leave and catch her breath.

Sighting Rose after all this time, not to mention her self-inflicted proximity to Kylo is flustering her beyond all belief. She can feel her scent amplifying into arousal by the second, and his turns musky to match hers. 

She’s just about to ramble off an excuse about needing to fix the pins in her hair because she feels her crown slipping – an outright lie – when a horrible choking cough from halfway down the one of the center tables causes a small disruption.

Suddenly alert, Kylo sits up, attentive.

“The Hosnian ambassador. He’s–”

A small scream from the woman next to him brings silence crashing into the hall.

_“Choking!”_

“Check his airways!” someone shouts. Dread fills her. An ill-omen.

“Let me up, my love,” Kylo grunts, unclipping her chain, and Rey scrambles off his lap, stunned. He storms to the gasping man and whips out his dagger.

She almost calls for him to stop before realizing what he means to do.

Every courtier scurries out of the way, leaving the Hosnian ambassador clutching his throat, purple-faced and desperate, as Kylo snatches the man’s hand and draws a drop of blood from his finger.

Rey inadvertently glances to Snoke, who regards the scene with the most horrible, bloodthirsty look on his face.

As if he’s greedy. As if he’s… _hungry._

The way he’s looking at Kylo is wrong, foul. Almost obscene.

_He…he wants him._

The old priest turns to meet Rey’s shocked gaze, and she goes cold inside when he displays a mouthful of pitted, yellowing teeth.

But her attention is turned back to her husband when he spits out a drop of blood. The dead ambassador slumps to the floor, and for the briefest moment, sheer terror flashes through their bond. His.

Kylo meets her eyes and he doesn’t need to say it for her benefit. But he speaks the word aloud for everyone else.

“Poisoned.”

A small commotion erupts from the members of the court, a ripple of terrified whispering and profound horror. Rey frowns as he calls for his Knights, even as she rushes to his side, concerned. Now is not the time for petty games.

“Why?” she asks, sinking into his gaze, discreetly granting him permission to touch her by taking his arm so he might escort her from the room. He rushes her into the corridor outside the hall, demanding everyone else to stay put. Only his Knights follow, and they form a ring around the royal couple as Kylo grips her arms.

He is distraught, eyes raking her face with unbound concern.

“Rey, you must go to the royal quarters and remain there until I come for you. I fear this is an assassination attempt.”

“Attempt? I don’t understand. The ambassador is dead…”

He licks his lips and glances about, but they are alone for the moment.

“Only a handful of people knew that plate was intended for me. That I planned to switch with the Hosnian ambassador during the fish course…as a declaration of my displeasure…only you rather distracted me…and…”

“…so the poison was meant for you?” she queries, heart fluttering with alarm, still confused.

“I think not. You’ve tasted every bite before me, my darling. I think it was meant for _you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my sweet darlings...I know it has been a teensy while since I updated this. I started another WIP called [Body of Work](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/24723547/chapters/59762740) and it's quite different and I was inspired by a prompt and I have no business starting another WIP, I KNOW. (Just a tiny, short distraction, hopefully!)
> 
> On the plus side, I finally finished a WIP that I had on anon for a while. It's called [Into That Good Night](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/22437334/chapters/53609257), and it is quite different from what I usually write. Very angsty, very sad, no smut. You may need a warm blankie and a cup of cocoa after this one...
> 
> If you haven't checked out either of those stories, they might tide you over until this story updates again.
> 
> ...speaking of this story...JUST WHEN YOU THOUGHT THE PLOT COULDN'T GET THICKER...I am very much excited for what is coming next and have plans to wrap up Part Two very soon...we have a lot of balls up in the air now...and some very fun and interesting (I hope!) stuff coming down the line. Also, yes I know I promised more of All Hell's Eve "next chapter" but I'm saving it for a very special moment. (That's code for "it was another 4000k words I just didn't have it in me to edit and post" and the feast scene ended up being way longer than planned.)
> 
> But it's coming. ;)
> 
> xoxoxoxo, and as always, I need you all to know I am terribly grateful to be part of this fandom and for your love and support. It means the world to me. <3


	36. War and Rumors Of War

# Chapter Thirty-Six – War and Rumors of War

Rey stares into her husband’s dark eyes and reads his panic, quickly shuttered as he does his best to keep the depths of it from showing. This new trouble, added to the danger she sensed from him during the Coronation ceremony, does nothing to ease her tension as the High Priest makes his way to them.

In the opposite direction, Mitaka rushes down the corridor, arriving just as Snoke reaches them. At a short wave from Kylo, the Knights expand their circle to allow Snoke and Mitaka inside, the ring of guards made larger when joined by Snoke’s Praetorians. From up close, Rey furtively scrutinizes the High Priest’s personal guards’ strange armor, a darker, more blood-red than the Omicrons’ vermilion.

_How curious. I cannot smell any of them. I wonder if their scent glands are removed like the Omicrons’ or if they have taken blood alterants to mask their scents?_

Kylo speaks in hushed tones, though he remains commanding as ever. “Mitaka. His Excellency requires a military escort for his return to Mustafar. See that you make preparations.”

To Rey’s astonishment and dawning disappointment, Snoke interjects, “No need for that, son, though I would welcome your servant’s assistance to procure my transport back to the High Church.” The High Priest’s eyes slither over her, lingering uncomfortably on her collar until her skin raises goosebumps. “I shall remain on Coruscant for now. Though you have assumed _sanctum iure_ , you may find yourself distracted, what with this _poisoning_ , and I would make myself available to assist with your Omega’s religious instruction. Until you are able to properly assume full responsibility for her spiritual path.”

Beside her, Kylo stills himself into stone, and she realizes once again he is doing a masterful job of hiding his emotions. “As you say, Your Excellency. I thank you for your consideration and welcome it.”

He gives a stiff nod to Mitaka, who begins punching away at a holocron pad, ostensibly summoning transport for the High Priest.

“I’m sure word has already spread of this travesty,” Snoke continues, staring at Mitaka's bent head. “I would be shocked if Hosnia does not retaliate within the hour.”

Unsure if he’s being asked a direct question, Mitaka discreetly maintains eye contact with Kylo only, who prompts, “Any word, Mitaka?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, Your Imperial Majesty. It seems they are already beginning to amass their local forces, as His Excellency so wisely ascertained. They appear to be very well-fortified, Your Grace.”

Kylo seems unsurprised by this and gravely announces, “Their ambassador is dead. Though a minor delegate and not granted enough authority to cede the Hosnian System to the First Order, his death will be considered an act of ill faith, nonetheless, as he died – _violently_ – under my own hospitality. They’ll see it as aggressive, hostile, even. Especially with the Old Laws newly reinstated.”

Rey bites off with a touch of venom, “Perhaps if you didn’t _just_ lay claim to the entire galaxy and enslave nearly half of it, people wouldn’t be so quick to assume hostile intentions on behalf of the Crown!”

At this, Snoke’s wispy eyebrows lift. Clearly, he expects Kylo to intervene and reprimand her.

Sure enough, her brief diatribe sets his jaw muscles to flexing and nostrils flaring, and she would be fascinated if she were not furious with him all over again.

“I’d prefer not to make a public spectacle, my dear,” Kylo warns. “We’ll talk about my _decision_ later. Now, for the love of the gods, shut up.”

Alongside her ire, she becomes acutely conscious of the dozens of diners in the hall just beyond, listening avidly for any scrap of conversation they can glean.

Her heart sinks at the whispers rushing through the crowd, knowing anyone within earshot just caught her husband’s scathing rebuke.

The High Priest appears as if he would add to Kylo’s harsh rejoinder, but the old man merely drawls in that horrid, oily voice of his, made even worse for the avaricious look Rey caught on his face earlier, “I shall take my leave and anticipate your attendance at the next blood moon service. And yours, Empress.” Snoke turns to Rey, and his expression is so greedy and vile she wants to hide. “And of course, your little Hellborn princess.”

She opens her mouth to tell him she’ll attend a blood moon ceremony the day she sprouts horns and a tail, but a loud whine from the dining hall interrupts, and instinctively, she spins to the sound.

“It’s Rose!”

“Rey! Wait!”

Uncaring, she shoves a Knight out of her way and pushes into the hall, only to find Hux kneeling on the floor.

A hard hand drags her back and she whirls, ready to snap, expecting it to be her husband. The lights flicker, but Kylo stands just out of reach, glowering at the Omicron who halted her.

“Lay a hand on my wife again, Captain Typho, and I will personally strip you of your rank and _skin_.” An ominous chill sweeps through the large room, snuffing out half of the candles and lamps.

“Forgive me, Your Imperial Majesty,” the Captain intones, bowing deeply and shuffling away in apparent apology. Rey sniffs at his presumption.

Kylo’s demeanor assumes that horrible, bloodcurdling chill Rey recalls all too well, and he moves to her side.

“I would have the hall checked for assassins before you enter it again, my darling,” he hisses in her ear, glaring at any who dare to meet his gaze. “And many eyes are upon you. Control yourself.”

Just beyond, she glimpses Snoke looking on from the corridor, and again she has an overwhelming sense of danger.

_He’s trying to protect me. From the High Priest. He does not wish to make a scene._

But both of their interests are turned again when Hux stands, holding a limp body in his arms. It’s Rose, and she’s moaning in pain. For a brief, gut-wrenching moment, Rey thinks she’s been poisoned, too, and her heart thuds a slow, dreadful cadence until Hux mutters, “She’s in labor.”

Kylo scowls at Rose as if the additional disruption is entirely her fault.

“Your Imperial _Majesty._ ” Rey tries to infuse a note of apologetic respect into her tone, though she's sure she still sounds fractious. He looks stern and she knows he is upset with her for castigating him just now. “With your permission, I beg you to allow Rose to be brought somewhere more private. She cannot travel in her condition, and I doubt she or your trusted general is responsible for what just happened.”

“It is not my decision to make, but that of her mate,” Kylo reminds her.

_Of course. Rose is Hux’s property, now._

Hux mutters, “I would be most grateful if we might take Her Grace's suggestion, Your Imperial Majesty.”

"Please," Rey whispers.

“Very well, Omega. She may use your old rooms in the royal wing, for now,” Kylo agrees. "They'll be secure enough, I expect."

Face aflame at his use of her designation in front of the entire court, she is torn between lighting into him here and now and holding her tongue. Her nostrils flare and her cheeks burn red.

Ever perceptive, Kylo catches her reaction and cocks his head, eyes flitting briefly between the priest and Rey before he murmurs, “We have much to discuss. I only beg of you to maintain your dignity and self-restraint. If not for your sake or Rose’s, then for Hope’s.”

_Gods, you did not just bring Hope into this. Oh, I think not, husband._

The chandelier overhead flickers out and several diners gasp aloud as the room is plunged into semi-darkness.

“You _dare_ speak to me of Hope within hours of humiliating me and every other Omega in this galaxy?”

“Hold your tongue, Omega!”

But Rey cannot stop. Like a dam that has burst, there is no stopping the flood from spilling over. “Under your precious Old Laws, our daughter is as like as I am to end up wearing a collar of her own someday. How is that dignified?”

His scent darkens and his eyes flash dangerously at her open defiance, and another ripple of shock runs through their onlooking guests. He does not put a hand on her, but she can read by the simmering violence in his eyes how ardently he wants to. Compulsion batters at her from their bond, and she sets her jaw, obstinately refusing to back down.

“You are most distraught, my darling, and I fear your nerves are overset from the strain of so much activity this day. I know you would never intentionally speak to me thus, especially before our guests or His Excellency.”

Before she can argue this point, he waves a hand, and his Knights are already circling again, herding them out of the hall. Hux follows, carrying Rose.

Visibly fuming, Kylo leads them the royal wing and barks, “Hux, you will get your mate settled and meet me in my war council chambers as soon as possible. Hosnia is mobilizing. Rey. I will give you five minutes to show them in, then I expect you in my apartments.”

“I can’t wait,” she snarls at his retreating shoulders, somewhat surprised he’s granting her a reprieve, only to realize he’s making a tactical withdrawal before his temper gets the better of him in front of his general and the other staff.

He’s _livid_ and trying not to make even more of a scene, and she briefly curses her impulsive tongue, which has thrown her into trouble more often than not.

Trying hard to follow suit, she hauls on the reigns of her own temper and sweeps into her old rooms ahead of Hux and Rose and Kylo's Knights.

By the time Hux sets Rose gently on the bed, Rose is breathing hard. Rey does not miss the concern rolling off him, and it only makes her hate him all the more.

_It's your fault she's in this condition in the first place, you bastard._

She orders the guards to leave, but the Knights refuse until Hux quietly asks them to stand just beyond the open chamber door to grant him a moment of privacy with his mate.

“Rose!” Sitting on the bed, Rey sweeps a damp lock of hair from her friend’s brow, while Hux kneels beside them. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Rose smiles up at her and a contraction rips though her hard enough to make her squeeze Hux’s hand until her knuckles turn white.

Hux, coldly stoic as ever, merely clenches his teeth, but his voice is tender when he says, “Your timing is disastrous, my little flower. I’m afraid I’ll be off to plot our war with Hosnia, and I shall miss all the fireworks.”

“It’s all right,” Rose gasps. “If it’s going to get much more painful than this, I’m probably going to want to murder you soon, anyhow.”

“Since when have you ever _not_ wanted to murder me, my pet?”

“I…I can’t think of a time when I didn’t…especially now… _shit_ this hurts.”

Hux grins with genuine amusement, and Rey frowns, unable to recall ever having seen such a fawning expression on the man’s face before.

_Much has happened between them. Gods, what are the worlds coming to?_

“Rose, you must try to control your breathing,” Rey urges, struggling to think of something useful from her own hazy memories of childbirth. Surely it wasn’t _so_ painful as it looks. She turns to Hux. “I would have her collar removed.”

But at this, Rose gapes, aghast, and Hux shakes his head in denial.

“We cannot! We must follow the royal example, Your Grace. And besides,” Rose whispers with a nervous glance to Hux. “His Imperial Majesty will _never_ approve of such flagrant defiance.”

“I don’t care! You cannot possibly –” She means to argue further, but Rose’s eyes squeeze shut with another contraction.

Just then, Doctor Nala Se enters the room, cutting the conversation short. She bustles to the bedside with her bio-med scanner already out and supremely indifferent to the fact she's shooing Rey and Hux away with impunity. 

“Your Grace, I request a private word.” Rey doesn't miss how Hux squeezes Rose’s hand and gives her cheek an affectionate caress before moving away from the bedside.

For a moment, Rey debates declining his invitation just to be stubborn, but with somewhat ill grace, she indicates a corner of the room where they can whisper among themselves without being overheard and at the same time keep an eye on Rose.

“What could you possibly want of me? Have you not done enough?”

At this opening volley, Hux’s brow lowers and his eyes freeze into their typical cold glimmer. _Ah, there it is._ This is the enemy she recognizes, and she braces to pit herself against him.

Especially when he says with reluctance, “I would beg a favor. Given the current situation, His Grace may have me shipping off to Hosnia very soon. Rose’s labor is most inconveniently timed.”

“If it’s _such_ an _inconvenience_ ,” Rey hisses, unable to help herself, “why didn’t you just _take care of it_ sooner?”

To her shock, a slight flush covers his pale cheeks. “She didn’t tell me until it was far too late.”

“How could you possibly _not_ notice such a thing?” Rey asks. This is as close as she ever wants to get to discussing her mortal enemy’s sex life.

He flashes his teeth with the barest tolerance. Clearly, he feels the same way.

_Careful, Rey. He’s a predator and like to be dangerous when provoked._

“I’ve been on the _Finalizer_ more than not all this time. Trying to prevent intergalactic war. My attention has been rather diverted.” He sounds agitated, even if his words are barely audible. Good.

“And what of your great plan to stop the Lottery? How’s that working out for you?” she mocks. But quietly, mirroring his own hushed tones.

“I’ve been working to that end, too. You should know your husband is only using it as a threat. For now. I do not think he means to –” Rose groans loudly, and he lowers his voice to a nearly imperceptible whisper. “I don’t think he means to enact the Old Laws in full force. He’s… _planning_ something and he’s keeping quiet about it.”

“Of course you’re defending him. Why am I surprised? I suppose the Old Laws are easy for an Alpha to find appealing,” Rey accuses in near silence. “Your wife and I are the ones wearing collars. What more needs to be said?”

“I’m begging on _her_ behalf. She has nowhere else to go if something happens to me. No other family.”

“You _bastard_ ,” Rey grinds out. “How _dare_ you speak to me of family? If this is some scheme of yours to set spies upon me…”

“Rose is loyal to _you_ ,” Hux insists with slight exasperation. He gives her a calculating look. “The Resistance is still on Hosnia. If Hosnia retaliates and the Emperor punishes them for it, he’ll wipe out the rebels, too. But I cannot allow it. We both know what it means for the galaxy if Hosnia is destroyed.”

“Do you mean to warn them?”

“I do not think so. I’ve washed my hands of them. I’m hoping we can find a more diplomatic resolution with the First Order.”

“And what of _Hera_?”

“I’ve not heard from her since the night she escaped the palace. I saw her to safety and that is all. I would remind you, I do not work for her.” His eyes run up and down her figure before landing on her crown with just enough impertinence to tell her she’s as vulnerable as he. “I suspect you no longer do, either?”

She prods, “Who _do_ you work for?”

But he evades her with a slight sneer. “Not everything is black and white, Your Grace," he chides. "I would think you’ve learned this by now, if nothing else.”

“What about Beebee? Hera will not hesitate to use her as collateral if she thinks you've defected.”

“I know. Which is why the maid has been with Rose and me this whole time. She’s still onboard the _Finalizer_. If I can do it without raising alarm, I will have her sent to you. I would prefer she is well looked after.”

“Another _favor_?”

He ignores the jibe, and she doesn’t pursue it. She wouldn’t mind seeing Beebee again, in all truth.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Believe what you will, but I’ve never meant you harm. You’ve kept my identity safe, and Rose’s, and protected a great many others. You’ve always stayed true to your Blood and done what’s needed for the greater good. Rose told me...I believe you want what is best for the people. As do I.”

“And you wish me to grant you your favor,” she adds with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

He grins. “And I wish you to grant me my favor.”

Rose moans in the background and his scent turns faintly acrid with worry.

“You care for her,” Rey says in awe, though the idea fills her with spite.

He doesn’t deny it. “I cannot stay. He’ll want me in his war council room. Soon.” His gaze slides again to Rose and the doctor at her bedside. “I implore you, please. If I must leave, or if something happens to me, keep Rose and our child with you. She knows everything. Everything about me. All of it. And she knows the cost if she turns to Hera now. The Resistance…it’s a lost cause.”

Rey blinks. He does not lie. The words do not stun her as they should, blasphemous though they are. 

_We are playing with more than pieces, now._

“You are no longer the Phoenix, then?”

“I think that title ever only belonged to you, Your Grace.”

“I’ll do as you ask. Under one condition.”

“Name it.”

“Answer my question and tell me true. You once called your dagger _Millicent_. Why?”

His nostrils flare and he glances again to Rose, moaning and whimpering on the bed over the doctor’s soothing murmurs. Rey lifts a brow, waiting and willing him to answer her.

“It was my mother’s name. I named it for her.” His eyes burn ice-cold into hers and she knows he's being honest, though he seems chillingly furious for being coerced into giving up such a personal detail.

“I will ask my husband permission to keep Rose near me. He might be convinced to allow me to retain a trusted companion.” Hux nods shortly, and Rey senses his relief. “But I swear to you here and now, if I sense any threat to the royal family, any treachery, I will _personally_ obliterate you and everything you love. And if you think my husband is frightening, then I pray you never find me angry.”

Every light in the room flickers, and this time she _knows_ it is because of her.

Because she did it on purpose.

Something odd gleams behind the chill in his eyes. Perhaps respect but also an awareness. As if he knows something she does not.

Rose wails again, but he only begs, “Please excuse me. And _please_ …”

_He’s actually pleading. How extraordinary._

She extends her hand as graciously as she can so he might buss his lips over it and make a show of taking a properly respectful leave from her exalted presence.

“…I’ll take care of her,” she promises. “And your child. I swear it. By my Blood.”

Still seething over his wife’s public and open rebellion, made worse since it happened right under Snoke’s nose, _godsdammit_ , he barges into his bedchamber, only quiet because Hope might yet be napping, and he’ll be damned if he wakes her.

Furious with Rey for so quickly finding his Achilles’ heel and publicly recriminating him, he flings his crown onto his bed and sneaks over to Hope’s crib, waving off her guards with a gruff gesture.

Demonstrating anything less than an utter, ruthless determination to rule with an iron fist will only draw Snoke’s suspicion. He was trying to maintain a low profile over the dratted, gods’-knotted collar, both part and parcel of the Old Laws and a necessary evil, to his point of view.

But when he lifts his daughter, smiling and cooing from her nap, the better part of his rage evaporates.

“Hello, sweeting, did you sleep well?” he croons, his black mood lightening instantly.

Hope mewls and smiles up at him. She is big enough to recognize his face now, and his voice, too, and so he recites a few nonsensical poems while he changes her wet diaper and bundles her back up again.

She goes longer between feedings these days, though Rey will be along soon enough. If not because he ordered her to, then she’ll need to feed the baby.

Hope clutches at his finger and he settles into his armchair by the fire, brow furrowed as he debates how to best handle his wife’s outspokenness with his own, greater quandary.

Because Rey _isn’t_ wrong, and he knows it. He must try to do better, especially now.

It stuns him when he realizes it, looking at his beautiful child and knowing he wants more, many more children. Not for his dynasty or to serve the Church or for any reason other than because he is a greedy soul. He wants a family, a large one. Something to further dispel the aching loneliness that has haunted him since before he can remember.

Perhaps she was right to run away and remove herself from his poisonous anger during all the months she carried their child. If he’s ever going to be any kind of a father, he knows he will need to repair things with his daughter's mother.

He cannot hide it much longer, nor can he conceal what he has done or why.

He’s long since accepted the fact his wife can never love him, nor does he particularly deserve her to. But the past is past, and he can try to let it die…if only.

If only Rey could do the same.

But she will _never_ be able to hold her peace, not if she believes injustice is occurring. And he is not strong enough to stop her, or truly punish her, ever again.

Hope emits a prolonged, "Gaaahhh!" and something hot and terrible burns at the back of his throat when he realizes how utterly ruined he is.

For it is the light of true hope he feels in his heart. And it’s fragile and ceaseless and frightening how easily he is drawn to it.

Because it only illuminates how desperately he still loves _her_.

Snoke can destroy him for it if he ever suspects. And Rey. And the child, certainly.

In retrospect, Kylo fears enacting the Old Laws is merely an empty gesture if he is still beholden to the High Church. And the act has only driven a wedge between him and his wife when they ought to maintain a united front now more than ever.

_Snoke will never let us go, not any of us. I was a fool to think signing a piece of parchment would change anything._

Knowing this, he allows a seed of searing, righteous indignation to take root. He’s long since suspected his master’s preference to serve a single side of the Force, instead of seeking balance. It's just never bothered him until now. 

He does not have the luxury of time if he is to separate his House from the Holy Church.

But Rey…she _must_ be brought to heel. Appearances must be maintained until the separation can be done. Any more outbursts, especially in front of Snoke, will put them all at risk.

The High Priest is already testing his boundaries by invoking the rights of the Church, even though it is legally and technically no longer his place to do so. But he means to hold his grip on the royal family, despite the Laws.

Kylo has no real means to stop him, not without a direct contest of force.

He could attempt magic here on Coruscant, where he _might_ be more powerful than his old master. But if he has learned nothing else, he knows Snoke has carefully crafted an illusion of weakness, even when he still wields very great power. Even if he cannot travel to the Underworld again, Snoke holds vast stores of magic.

Besides, Kylo cannot risk Hope’s safety, nor Rey’s, by challenging his master with them anywhere nearby. Any direct confrontation could be catastrophic and perhaps even bring about the end they foresaw on All Hell’s Eve, the horrible prophesy outlined on the floor of the Great Hall.

And Rey, her magic is unbound and dangerous.

_She needs to know the truth._

Lights and candles flickering is nothing compared to what she’s capable of. He cannot risk setting off her temper. And she’ll be especially jumpy now, especially with Rose nearby and in labor.

If he knows his wife at all, which he does, telling Rey the full truth will only make her more unstable and unpredictable. And he just needs her to play along for a while longer, though he dare not tell her why.

Torn, he rocks Hope and hums lightly. She’s beginning to fuss, and Rey cannot avoid them forever.

Matching his scowl, his little Hellborn pouts back up at him. Hope will soon be screeching for her dinner.

At least he does not need to worry about Hope’s food being poisoned, though this turns his mind back to the Hosnian’s mysterious death.

Because only two other people knew of his intent to switch plates. Mitaka. And Phasma.

Both servants have proven themselves time and again and have had ample opportunities to harm Rey _or_ him if they so wished it. It simply doesn’t make sense for either of them to try to poison her now of all times.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Rey charges into the room, eyes flashing pure fury at the Knight escorting her. 

Heading her off before she can start in, he only waits until she’s seated in her chair by the hearth and passes her the baby before asking neutrally, “Is the maid Rose all right, then?”

“As well as she can be under the circumstances.” She sounds quite bitter, and Kylo wonders why. Babies are generally a joyous occasion and something to be celebrated. “If Hosnia is mobilizing and you intend to ship Hux out, I would have her remain nearby as my companion.”

_Ah, ever the strategist, she is. But here’s some leverage we might exploit._

He seats himself across from her with only the Dejarik table between them. “I’ll allow you to keep Rose, so long as you are able to control your temper and behave with proper decorum.”

“Really?” She looks doubtful.

“Certainly. I daresay it will alleviate distractions for Hux, as well, knowing his mate and child are under our protection. So we might more rapidly rid ourselves of the Resistance and restore balance and peace to the galaxy.”

“What you call peace, I call slavery,” she snorts, lifting her chin to call attention to the collar just under it.

Ah, _dammit_. That collar is going to be more trouble than it’s worth.

“I still intend to annihilate the Resistance, nevertheless. My mother must and will be brought to justice and punished for her crimes, as will my uncle. If I must tear apart the galaxy to root them out, I’ll do it.”

“And yet you speak of peace? People ought to be free to rule themselves.”

“How long might they live in their so-called freedom when they have no water? No food? Even your rebel planets are supplied by a complex infrastructure those lone systems do not have capacity to replicate on their own. Look at Jakku. Without the Imperial trade routes, Jakku would be starved out in weeks. The food and supplies for moisture farming are only brought because the First Order ensures fair access by patrolling the routes. Those systems are not free from us, nor separate, and to believe they are or ever have been is willful ignorance. I could shut down any one of them with a word and could have done at any time, and yet I have refrained.”

He pushes further, seeing her consider his words. Perhaps she can be reasoned with, after all. “Did it never occur to you, my darling, during the entirety of your life on Jakku, where the cloth for your garments or oils for your bath actually came from? Most of your planet’s staples were imported, as are many of the so-called _Free Systems’_.”

“I just don’t understand why you suddenly need the Old Laws to uphold a system that’s worked just fine all this time.”

“I know,” he sighs, resigned.

“How am I to take such outright humiliation? This collar? A hassock at your feet? And calling me _Omega_ as if I’m…as if I’m _nothing_?”

“You see those things as shameful, but I assure you, most of the galaxy does not, nor should you.”

Ah, damn, she’s crying. Tears spill down her cheeks and she shifts the baby so she can swipe them away, one-handed.

“I will not pretend to understand your feelings on it. You think it is vulgar to publicly acknowledge your true _Omega_ self and our bond,” he murmurs. “It is a relic of the old Jedi ways, whose antiquated manners deem it rude to speak of such things. You’ve been told it is a shameful embarrassment to discuss in polite society. It is not. And you cannot deny the fact you are an Omega, and one gifted with Golden Blood, and bonded to me, and mated, and the mother of my child.” She blushes at his stark words, which he can see even in the room’s low light. “Perhaps you found it shameful, what happened the night we conceived Hope. I admit what I did was neither gentle nor well-considered. I was beastly and crude and I heartily regret it. But the collar must remain.”

She shakes her head _no_ and he goes on, “The symbolism behind it far exceeds the need to preserve your pride. Our bond will assure our people of unity if you would but let it. Without common ground to stand upon, the rebels will continue to pick off weaker systems to hide in, risking the lives of all, not just their own. Many more will suffer under the chaos. You know your history. Look to that if you need examples. You must see the importance of holding a united front. Divided, my house, _our_ house, cannot stand. No matter how I suffer for it.”

“ _You_ suffer?” she cries, affronted.

“I know you do not love this, Rey, nor do I particularly enjoy to align myself with one who so willingly betrayed me and who so clearly despises me now. Not when…”

“When what?”

“When the idea that you belong to me still arouses me beyond measure, even if you so obviously hate it. I cannot,” he mutters, his gaze drifting inevitably to the band of metal clasped around her throat, then lower.

Her cheeks glow pink under his blatant stare, and he wonders if she can tell he is thinking quite specifically of their sharp-edged teasing during the feast.

Perhaps her change of subject is for the best, even if the new topic is unpalatable.

“With…Hosnia. Do you think this is the commencement of what we saw that night?”

_The gods will die._

“No. And if it is, I’ll put a stop to it, I swear.” Fresh tears well in her eyes and he moves to kneel at her side, his annoyance forgotten at the palpable fear he sees. “Don’t be afraid.”

Her lips tremble and he cannot help but rest his palm gently over Hope, still nursing at her mother’s breast as if they weren’t discussing the fate of the galaxy. It’s as close as he dares come to touching Rey, and yet he senses deep turmoil within her.

It strikes him this is the most rational conversation they’ve had in a very long while.

_Perhaps Hope’s soothing presence influences the both of us. Perhaps she –_

“I thought it was all my fault,” Rey blurts out. “What we saw that night. What I saw today in the Great Hall’s floor. I tried to stop it, tried to…”

“Tried to stop it? How could you have?” His gaze searches hers for answers.

“I thought if I ran away…” She pauses, on the brink of telling him something monumentally important, he thinks.

“What?”

“You were so angry, and it was right after you…”

_After I violated you beyond sacrilege._

“Sweetheart,” he starts. Her eyes burn into his.

“I knew you would be safe. I knew a mortal injury would send you back…back to… _”_

_The Underworld._

“You didn’t mean to kill me?” he breathes. 

Fresh tears stream down her face. He crowds close, as close as he can get without breaking his vow, scrutinizing her expression, reading their bond.

_She does not hate me._

“It was the prophecies. You always thought they might have been about you, since you were a product of…”

“…my mother and uncle?”

“Well, metaphorically. They both shaped you. I know. I saw your memories. Your mother, she thought the same. But when we saw that…river of light, I _knew_. I thought the foretellings referred to me. It’s why I ran. You never would have let me go. I thought it would be all my fault, what we saw.”

_Just the madness of the Underworld. Of course she would have thought so. She was half insane for weeks after. We both were. My fault._

“You couldn’t tell me. You couldn’t trust me, not after what I did. So, you ran.”

“I’m a coward. I should have killed myself to be sure, but I couldn’t. Not…not with Hope…”

“I thought you _hated_ me, what I did…”

“…and then when you came for us on Takodana. I thought you were going to kill me then. I thought you…”

“Thought I what?”

“I thought you only wanted a child if she had Golden Blood. Like me.”

“I am a monster.”

Her gaze softens. “You _were_ a beast. But…” The baby coos and they both smile at her, momentarily distracted. Then Rey whispers brokenly, “I’ve done terrible things, too. Unforgivable things.”

He cannot possibly imagine what else she can have done that is so horrible. He's well aware of her plots with his mother. And his rage over her stabbing him and running away, so quickly on the heels of her trying to flee on the night of All Hell’s Eve is a defensible argument. It all makes perfect sense, and he only has himself to blame.

“You thought the prophesies were about you? When you fled Coruscant? But that’s impossible. The prophesies speak of a matched dyad, and you do not have a twin.”

_And you are truly unmatched._

“I know. I figured it out after a few months on Takodana. I think…I think I might have been a little…”

“Insane?” he smirks, permitting himself the smallest humor.

She evaluates him for a long minute. “The New Republic has established a military base on Hosnia.”

“Yes.” Mitaka mentioned it earlier in the corridor outside the dining hall, and he wonders why she’s bringing it up now. 

“The Resistance is there, too.” The words come out so softly he barely hears them, and she will not meet his shocked glance.

“What?” he rasps, startled and shaken.

“It’s where your mother fled. The night she escaped. She told me her plan. When she first arrived on Coruscant. The day I invited her to tea.”

“And my uncle? Is he there, too?”

“I know not.”

“Why?” _Why are you telling me this? Why now?_

She lifts her chin. And never before has she looked more regal to him. “I _am_ a Golden Blood. My purpose is to shield the people, all of them. From harm, and famine, and death. What we saw in the Great Hall’s floor is a manifestation of prophesy. It _will_ happen. If we do not stop it. If your mother…if _anyone_ …intends to thwart you by jeopardizing Hosnia and starving half the galaxy, I cannot allow it.”

His gaze drifts to the collar around her neck and he finds himself filled with a deep shame that he dare to be so selfish as to want more from her, perhaps some indication of personal affection despite all he’s done.

_You must have faith, my lord. Your wife yet loves you, though she will not admit it. But I am old and have seen much. And I have heard her tears when she believes herself to be alone._

“Is there no other reason you have for telling me?” he can’t help but ask. Hoping.

To his surprise, she replies, “I fear they intend to lure you into a trap. They are afraid to attack you on Coruscant. You are strong here. I…feel it. I felt it when we returned. But my death would certainly be enough provocation to draw you away. I fear they mean to try to kill you.”

“Do you not wish me dead, as well? After all I’ve done to aggrieve you this day?”

“Hope deserves a father, even if he’s a scoundrel.” The jibe is so gentle, he almost misses it. But his heart thumps out of control.

_Don’t give me hope, Rey. It’s too cruel._

But she does not hear his silent plea. “She deserves a family. You are her family, too.”

He opens his mouth, trembling lips ready to confess everything, _everything_ , when an odd, electric light shines on her face.

It’s coming from behind him. From the Dejarik table, he realizes, following the trajectory of her distracted gaze as she looks to the source of the strange illumination.

She gasps, and when he sees it, he does, too.

It is clear as day.

**Luke Skywalker, Jedi Master vs. Ben Solo, Padawan, Lvl. Four (game in progress)**

The old game has been reopened, the one with Ben poised to execute a _Smuggler’s Run_ against Luke’s _Thieves’ Blunder_ while holding his metaphorical dagger at his uncle’s throat.

Only the pieces have moved. Luke has made his next turn.

And delivered a message on the screen. Unmistakably taunting, for all the galaxy to see.

**_Your move. See you around, kid._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY. So a TON of stuff in this chapter tied into earlier stuff, and that’s why it took a while to update. That and I’m still whipping out [Body of Work](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/24723547/chapters/59762740), which you might want to check out because it’s a hoot and might tide you over if you're horny. ;) I’ll be updating that one again soon, too.
> 
> Anywho, I’ve been sitting on that Dejarik game for AGES, my friends. 
> 
> You know what I REAAAALLLY love? Coming back to shit I set up twenty or thirty chapters ago and have been sitting on all this time and FINALLY get to set into motion. 
> 
> The exhilaration is so profound, I’m not sure I can adequately describe the satisfaction. I imagine it's what a well-played game of Dejarik feels like...


	37. God's Broken Children

# Chapter Thirty-Seven – God’s Broken Children

She clings to the scent of his blood, faded but noticeable even when mingled with the other, less savory notes in the air.

“To embrace the Dark Side is not in itself morally reprehensible or flawed as your superstitious peasants would have you believe. There is great power in Darkness, and it is here where one will find his,” - Rey glances up at the High Priest’s significant pause - “or _her_ deepest inner strength.”

Privately, Rey knows the old man’s words to be true, yet she gives no indication of outward approval or disagreement. She has relied upon that cold, hard seed of darkness many times. Particularly where her husband is involved.

She tries to focus on Snoke’s words, hoping to glean something useful.

They’ve been at worship for hours now, with Kylo kneeling before the vaguely hideous altar at High Church, quietly dripping blood down both of his arms since he staunchly refused to permit Rey to make a blood offering.

When Snoke inquired as to why _the Omega_ should be exempt, Kylo explained she might be pregnant again, easily delivering the bald-faced lie without any apparent qualm or hesitation. Rey was startled into silence. Even if they had resumed marital relations, which they most certainly have not, her falling pregnant again would be highly unlikely since she’s still breastfeeding Hope, who isn’t yet two months old.

But Kylo insisted and Rey had blushed, horribly embarrassed at such a bold reference to their intimate lives, whether true or not, and the High Priest caught her reaction and assumed Kylo to be telling the truth and questioned him no further.

Ostensibly, even the possibility of her being pregnant is enough to win her a dispensation from partaking in this warped version of prayer, though Snoke’s disappointment is evident.

Even if she wasn’t sure what to expect, she ought to have known blood would be involved.

During the ride to the High Church, Kylo briefly described the service and told her she would be expected to take a vow of silence and sit and listen to the High Priest’s sermon, nothing more. When she asked about the need for confidentiality, Kylo explained the mysteries of the Sith Order cannot be permitted to be known by those who would misuse them, and when she persisted in arguing the point, he bluntly clarified: If she violates the laws of secrecy, it implicates him as well, since he has assumed responsibility for her religious instruction and her actions thereof.

Anyone found breaking the laws must face severe, prolonged punishment. It will not do for the both of them to be incapacitated, he warily emphasized, and leave Hope without parents to be raised in care of the Church.

And when they arrived at the High Church and Snoke bade her take her oath of silence, only Hope’s restless snuffling in Kylo’s arms at her side reminded her what was at stake, his warning having done plenty to curb the hot retort on her tongue, especially when she once again caught her husband’s near desperate, surreptitious attempt to communicate with her through their bond.

_Caution, my love._

She could practically hear him speak the words aloud, and she held her peace and kept her expression carefully neutral as she followed him into a small, private sanctuary and settled into a pew, taking Hope and preparing to listen interminably.

Snoke’s bits of history are not uninteresting, but Hope grows restless as the morning drags on.

Rey’s arms are tired, yet she refuses to set the baby down or relinquish her into another’s hands. She focuses instead on Kylo’s broad shoulders, bowed in prayer and giving no indication he is in pain, though he must be by now. Impressed by his concentration, she tries once again to pay attention to the High Priest, if for no other reason than she might learn something useful of the magic she’s sensed burgeoning inside her ever since her return to Coruscant.

Like Kylo, his Knights are kneeling, lined up behind him and bleeding into little gutters cut into the floor, disturbingly reminiscent of the troughs wrought into the palace steps for public executions. Knowing Kylo’s own fraught history, she wonders what his Knights’ checkered pasts must hold. She’s getting the sense they’ve all been doing this for many, many years, probably having joined the Church as boys and been indoctrinated when they were young and impressionable.

This seems too eerily similar to her own background with the Jedi, and the comparison discomfits her.

Instead of dwelling on this, she drifts, eventually ruminating on the immediate chaos after Luke Skywalker lit up their Dejarik board yesterday in the middle of the conversation she'd been having with her husband.

He’d been on the precipice of revealing something monumental, Rey is sure, but then that light on the Dejarik table came on and drew his attention. And once he realized what had happened, he only stared longingly at her mouth for a full minute before he finally said, “My war council awaits me. I must go.”

He did not come in until quite, quite late last night.

She knows he was very late because she wasn’t able to fall asleep until he’d settled into his side of the bed. She heard him enter the bedchamber and stealthily check on Hope before moving to the washroom to wash and change into sleeping clothes, another consideration he’s been making lately. She is well aware he prefers to sleep in the nude and suspects he only wears clothes to bed for her sake these days.

This reflection brings warmth to her cheeks, but she is quickly distracted by the High Priest’s chanting. The unintelligible words sound evil and profane and remind her dreadfully of _that_ night when Kylo brought his deathly shadows into the realm of the living.

She can feel every bare kiss of Snoke’s cold steel on her husband through their bond. He does his best to keep it from her, but a tingle bleeds through now and then and it’s enough to raise goosebumps on her arms and make the back of her neck prickle uncomfortably.

It’s shocking, but not the worst part of the morning by far.

No, the worst is neither the Church’s thinly disguised and occasionally misogynistic dogma, nor the elegant violence of the High Priest cutting her husband as easily as turning a page in a book, nor even Kylo’s unflinching stoicism as he submits to whatever ritualistic bleeding his master demands.

Nothing troubles her so much as the reason behind Kylo’s lie in the first place, knowing she is supposed to be kneeling at his side, enduring similar treatment.

_He’s still protecting me from some danger he will not name._

This is the thought that holds the main portion of her awareness, even as she hides it, well-practiced at covering her emotions and thankful for Leia’s many years of schooling.

“…our understanding of light and Dark was not fully realized until the Clone Wars, during the Genesis period on Old Terra.”

With his pale eyes glinting that same chilling hunger she spotted before, the High Priest draws another thin red line across Kylo’s outstretched forearm. Her husband does not react, and his crowned head remains respectfully bent, unflinching in a perfect demonstration of piety.

Bitterly, Rey wonders how many of the old man’s filthy blood rites are actual mandates of the Church and how many are simply extensions of the High Priest’s own sick desires. And she marvels at Kylo’s easy acceptance of this so-called _devotion_. It’s an outrage, at least to her, looking on as a virtual outsider.

Unfortunately, there isn’t a gods-damned thing she can do about it here.

She _will_ bring it up later, in private, though, if they ever find themselves alone again. He will have plenty to deal with given last night's flurry of activity that followed Luke Skywalker’s _coup de grace_ on the Dejarik table, which was followed by Rose giving birth shortly after that, not to mention a poisoner being on the loose amid all the excitement of Hosnia going up in arms and hinting at open rebellion against the Crown.

The royal couple didn’t have time to speak at all the prior evening, and this morning they had to be up and ready for Church far earlier than Rey is used to rising.

And now, other than their brief conversation on the trip here, and that in the hearing of their shuttle driver, they’ve not had a chance to speak two words to each other.

Snoke drones on about the Clone Wars, mostly a refresher of the history lessons Rey learned on Jakku.

She already knows the Clone Wars preceded The Great Devastation, an overcorrection in course from humanity’s attempt at playing God, many eras ago.

Rey always figured the lesson was meant to prove the flaws of religious extremism, but by the way Snoke is talking, the rebels were virtual heroes.

When experiments in eugenics led ancient humanity too far down the path to cloning human beings, it was enough to foment rebellion, then war. Eventually, biological warfare was introduced by an extremist faction. 

The Great Devastation disrupted everything, including any scientific advancements to be made, as it scythed ruthlessly through the galaxy. Only Golden Blood infusions could cure the diseased, and only humans were compatible with the cure.

Some argued in favor of trying to clone Golden Bloods, but it was generally viewed as too outrageous, an act against the will of the gods.

“In fact, it was a powerful Alpha known only as Plagueis the Wise, who discovered the distinction between light and Dark as it applies to common knowledge now. It was He who gathered the magic needed to rake Hell upon that ill-fated Earth, destroying the clone farms and vast repositories of data and putting an end to the source of the Plague once and for all, although sadly ensuring his own destruction in the process.”

The Exodus Period followed, turning Earth into an empty husk as humanity fled the doomed planet. In a mass evacuation, humans sought other homeworlds, carrying the viral plague with them. Intelligent species began dying off en masse as the virus mutated to effectively demolish any animal life with a higher functioning cerebral cortex.

Plagueis was never heard from again, and humanity was left to rebuild from the ashes of the destruction they had sown, assimilating other technologies from dead species into their own remnants of culture to form a new society.

From here, the Faith was split in two; those who believed salvation lay in the light and who forsook the use of magic entirely, as they endeavored to live modestly, humbled by near-extinction.

And the smaller, but no less devoted faction who believed that only in understanding the power of Darkness could humanity fully embrace transcendence. Like Plagueis, those who could wield dark magic were rare, and, just as the gene for Rh-null runs in offspring of Golden Bloods, magical abilities tends to run in families. As generations passed and many practitioners fell to natural death, others were sought out and assassinated, and still others succumbed to the natural lure of lingering in the Underworld or going mad, or both.

“It was the Gravewalkers who wielded the magic of the Dark Side, the only ones with the power to rake a planet to hell and kill the virus should it rise again…and those who sought to exterminate them called themselves Skywalkers, sworn unto this day to eliminate any who would wield our magic…”

_No wonder my husband declared the name Skywalker dead when he assumed his role of Supreme Leader well over a decade ago._

The lengthy sermon continues, and her boredom threatens to become noticeable. She tries not to dwell on it, knowing Kylo’s own discomfort must be far worse than her own.

She is sure she is not mistaken in her sense that Snoke lusts after blood, Kylo’s blood, and hers, more than just about anything. It lingers in the gleam she saw in his eyes at the Feast, when he watched Kylo as greedily as any raptor bird of prey, and again when she caught him staring at her after the Hosnian ambassador’s poisoning.

If anything, Rey finds it rather a wonder her husband is not much more of a tyrant, considering he’s been steeping in this foul form of religion for so long.

And eventually, the service ends. Kylo and his Knights utter in unison the eerie words in that strange language, and wisps of shadows crawl from the altar and from the cracks between the stone floor to surround them, removing any traces of injury and making her stomach turn at the sight.

She clutches Hope close and does not argue at all when Kylo stands and clips his chain to her collar and leads her from the private sanctuary into the main Church and down the center aisle.

She’s been well-guarded all morning, but she only feels truly safe after she’s attached to _him_ by that chain.

_He’s protecting me. And Hope, too._

She is quiet on the return trip to the palace, and when they arrive, she considers asking permission to check on Rose and her baby boy. But she is torn, unwilling to leave her husband alone so soon after what she witnessed at Church.

Perhaps she is more disturbed than he, but she would speak with him sooner than later, if she can.

“Must you meet with your council right away?”

“Soon. But we should talk, I think?” he replies, solemnly scanning her face with his typical dark, omniscient gaze. “I know you will not be able to hold a proper conversation until you’ve assured yourself dear Rose is feeling quite well, hmmm? Perhaps you ought to check on her, first.” The briefest smile lights his eyes and she knows he’s right.

“I’ll be quick,” she promises, passing the baby to him with a hurried, “Hope ought to be ready for her nap, anyhow.”

When Rey enters her old rooms, Doctor Nala Se is there, but the doctor slips into the washroom to give them a moment. Rose smiles and is proud to give her another peek at the newest Hux, – something Rey has no small trouble wrapping her mind around – but she only has time to admire the darling little boy’s full head of thick, pin-straight black hair and inquire after Rose’s health before Hux himself comes in, apparently granted a reprieve from his duties long enough to visit his wife and child.

“Forgive my interruption, Your Imperial Majesty. I didn’t realize you would be here.” He bows formally, impossible to read as ever.

“No need to beg my forgiveness, General. I expect you are most eager to spend what time you can with your family,” she acknowledges, grudging him some precedence, in light of Rose looking on.

Hux nods coolly, but his attention is drawn to Rose and his son, both tucked snugly into Rey’s old bed.

“I mentioned what you told me yesterday about that… _thing_ …on Hosnia,” Rey whispers. “You should know he knows.”

_About the Resistance. So there are no surprises if it comes up._

“Thank you, Your Grace. He brought it to my attention in confidence. Yesterday.”

Nala Se pops back into the room and, feeling a bit like an intruder, Rey gives Rose a gracious smile, and more for Nala Se’s sake than anything, mutters a hasty “congratulations, General” before leaving them.

She wanders back to Kylo’s rooms, overcome by the sudden urge to procrastinate their inevitable conversation. On her way through the connecting antechamber, she glances up to the gaudily painted ceiling, pausing to give it a critical view for the first time in ages.

It really _is_ quite beautiful, rich with color and movement, and the artist rendered her husband’s likeness and Rey’s quite convincingly.

She wonders if Kylo really meant it to be a romantic gesture, as he’d claimed. A gift to inspire her ardor.

Just beyond the door to her old rooms, she hears the faintest squall of the Hux’s newborn baby and is struck by a wave of sudden remorse. Kylo so obviously loves Hope, she feels a rush of guilt, knowing she deprived him of the chance to attend his daughter’s birth.

_Perhaps next time._

And once that idea lodges itself in her mind, she can’t tear it away.

_Gods, I want…is it so very awful that I want more children?_

Perhaps she is being terribly selfish, but deep flutters fill her belly at the thought of what having more children will inevitably require in the process of making them.

Through the cracked door to his bedchamber, she hears him speaking in very low tones, almost sing-song.

_Ah, he’s quoting poems to the baby._

Her heart contracts, hard, and she creeps near, peering into the room, silent and curious.

He’s alone with Hope, and at first she cannot hear his words, but she recognizes the slight furrow of his brow, drawn in concentration. It’s a look she’s seen many times before when he’s utterly enraptured with something.

Long ago, she was treated to that same look more times than she could count.

He used to recite the loveliest poetry to her…

For now, the object of his attention is their daughter.

_“There was a young wife from Naboo_   
_Who never could keep herself true._   
_Her husband was naught,_   
_They constantly fought,_   
_So she left him for somebody new.”_

Upon hearing this unseemly rhyme, Rey arches a brow and sneaks closer. The baby squeaks, and Kylo’s broad shoulders shake with silent amusement.

“You are supposed to be falling to sleep, sweeting.”

But Hope coos, and Rey listens, half-appalled, as he recites:

_“There once was a maid from Kashyyyk_   
_Who rarely, if ever, did speak._   
_Her lover was dull,_   
_But his knot kept her full,_   
_So she kept her tongue in her cheek.”_

Rey covers her gasp of mirth with her hand, and the baby snorts and yawns. Kylo hums and rocks and delivers another.

_“There was an old Jedi from Hoth_   
_Who farted whenever he coughed._   
_He caught a flu,_   
_And shit in his shoe,_   
_And hacked till his pecker went –”_

“Good gods!”

Startled, Kylo jumps in guilty surprise at his wife’s horrified exclamation. From the edge of his line of sight, she crosses her arms and scolds, “And you accuse _me_ of foul language!”

Well, by Zeus’s bloody knot, she caught him fair and square. No point denying it.

“How long have you been eavesdropping?” he asks wryly.

“Long enough! Since the young wife from Naboo.”

_Ah. Good thing you missed the one about the miner from Crait…_

He smirks, but it falls quickly from his face when he notices the cloud of melancholy hanging about her.

“Is everything quite all right?”

“Quite,” she counters a bit tartly, lifting her crown from her head and setting it carefully next to his on his dressing table. “Hope should be napping.”

“I wasn’t sure if she needed feeding before…” He drifts off, trying with every ounce of willpower not to stare at his wife’s lightly heaving bosom.

“No, I fed her already. I would have sworn you could hear her in Church,” Rey replies, somewhat surprised. “She made quite a ruckus, the little rathtar.”

Hope does indeed eat with as much gusto as a hungry rathtar these days, grunting and snorting loud enough to rouse the dead. He is sure if his mind were at all in this world during the morning’s service he most certainly _would_ have heard her.

But he was focused on other matters and forced to expend a good deal of his concentration on upholding proper dignity before this morning’s small, very exclusive congregation and the High Priest.

He’ll be damned if he shows weakness now. Especially now.

The mention of Church casts a pall over her demeanor. Snoke was particularly brutal today, and Kylo wonders if the extra malice was meant as a general warning or merely intended to shock Rey and test her mettle for the harsher aspects of the spiritual dedication required to serve the Dark Side.

It cannot be borne for much longer; she will not stand for it.

All morning he found himself torn between the idea of hustling her and Hope away to Naboo, where they will have a smaller household staff and thus be less susceptible to infiltration by assassins, or of just leaving Coruscant to deal with Hosnia right away, precipitating his split from the Church altogether, though he'd also be leaving Rey alone and temporarily defenseless.

Well. She would not _be_ defenseless if she knew the truth.

The only way she’ll be safe is if she at least knows about the magic…and their blood bond. She can use it to defend herself here on Coruscant if nothing else.

“I did something, Rey, and I need to tell you,” he blurts out.

“I want another baby,” she says at the same time.

“What?”

_“What?”_

Her face flames scarlet but she stares him down.

“What?” he repeats. But she only strides across the room and snatches up Hope, taking her time settling the baby into her crib before whirling on him. He can do nothing but sit in his chair at the fireside, gaping at her blunt revelation.

“You want another one? More children?” His mouth can’t seem to work in conjunction with his brain. Oh, he’s _definitely_ staring at her chest now. “As in… _my_ children?”

“What did you do?” she asks, seating herself opposite him like the Empress she is and obstinately refuses to be distracted.

Damn, she sounds worried, and he’d hoped to present her a more palatable version of the truth after things had progressed a bit more advantageously.

She narrows her eyes. Shit, he shouldn’t have said anything about –

But. She wants another baby.

Everything in his head evaporates under that one single thought.

_She’ll have to let me touch her. She’ll have to let me do…all kinds of things…_

His breathing turns rapid and his pulse seems to be hammering out of control and suddenly his cravat feels far too tight and he wonders if Mitaka overly tightened it that morning, but no, Kylo tied it himself, that’s right, because they were in a hurry to get to Church.

“You mean…you’ll let me…?” His tongue is thick, and his mouth starts watering.

She crosses her leg over her knee and her foot bobs up and down.

A certain part of his anatomy is already twitching quite eagerly, more than ready to get started on making that baby. Immediately. Now. _Yes_.

He gulps and forces himself to cool down. She’s got too good a straight face and he can’t tell if she’s as rattled as he is.

“I’m not saying another word,” she mutters, “until you finish your explanation. And after what I witnessed this morning in Church…you must know I can’t condone the High Priest’s behavior.” His heart sinks at the mention of Snoke, even as she goes on. “What you let him do to you…that’s not worship, and I want no part of it.”

“That was not a typical service, my darling, I promise,” he soothes, knowing what he is about to reveal is going to be so much worse that his half-baked platitudes over Church.

“I should hope not! And that’s another thing! Why am I sensing so much danger? Yesterday, from Snoke. And through our bond and all morning…you’ve been trying to warn me. I _know_ something is going on, and you’re hiding it.”

“All I can ask is that you trust me. We must show a united front for a little while longer…I promise I will explain everything when the time is right.”

She’s not buying his futile attempt to appease her, and her foot bobs faster.

“Why? You know it isn’t right, what’s happening. Isn’t it your duty and mine to ensure _both_ sides of the Force are in balance? I know my obligations as a Jedi, and I can promise you our priests aren’t demanding blood at every turn!” She’s getting worked up now, and Kylo cannot get a word in edgewise. “The people look to us as examples. As a Jedi, I’m a public figure and I know better than to go to such radical extremes as you have done. You must know how that path leads to fanaticism and revolt and war. We must set the pace for those who choose to serve either side.”

He prevaricates, knowing they are treading dangerous ground. For this is the crux of his problem, her deep loyalty to her religion.

“I know the Jedi path is awfully important to you. I would not have you forsake it entirely.”

“What do you mean _entirely_?”

“I…don’t even know how to tell you of it.”

“Tell me of what?”

He releases a long exhale and waits until he has her undivided attention before just spitting it out. “The night you were ill, poisoned. When we lost…when you almost died.” She goes pale and he feels physically ill as her dread and remorse seep through their bond.

“Go on,” she whispers.

“Snoke was here. You remember?” She gives him a short nod. “You were dying, Rey. I couldn’t…lose you.” If possible, her face goes even whiter. He knows she hates speaking of that night because she still blames herself for losing their child. “Do you recall what happened?”

“When we went…to the Underworld?”

“Yes.”

“I remember.” One’s first trip there isn’t something easily forgotten. “You hurt me. And yourself. There was…so much blood…and death. It was a nightmare.”

“And when we came back…you were…”

“Healed.”

“I needed Snoke’s help. In order to do it, to take you with me…I didn’t have the magic for it, yet.” _Gravewalking. Bringing the shadows of death to the land of the living._

“I know. That came…after.” Darkness haunts her expression, as she’s obviously recalling that _other_ night.

“I let him, Snoke, do something. Something unforgivable.”

Her eyes flash to his and the fire gusts out. They’d be sitting in the dark if not for the watery daylight pouring through the windows. Her voice goes cold and stern and dangerous. “What do you mean _unforgivable_? What did you let him do?”

He’s dancing close to the edge of lunacy, and he dare not reveal the full truth of the promise he made, or she’ll tear the planet in half, especially with Snoke in residence nearby at the High Church.

“We share a blood bond.”

“I know,” she replies, bewildered. “From our wedding day.”

A slight flush rises to her cheeks at the memory, and he tries not to become distracted by how charming she is.

“That’s not the bond I speak of. I’m talking about the one forged the day you were poisoned. Before I took you…to that Place. A bond made by Snoke. And me.”

“I…don’t understand.”

“The darkest magic. A sacrilege. We used…blood magic to create a bond. Between you. And me.”

_…do you consent to bind your blood in the realms of darkness?_

“A sacrilege?” she whispers aghast. “What are you saying?”

His jaw clenches, and sorrow floods him. “You cannot ever serve the light, Rey. Not now. I tainted your blood with mine. Your service as a Jedi can never be fully realized, not for any meaningful rites you wish to undergo in the future. If you were ever to desire to join a convent or pursue the Path of Light, those doors are forever closed to you.”

She looks more disturbed as realization dawns. “So, I cannot be buried as a Jedi? Or sanctified by a Jedi priest?”

“I had no choice. Don’t you see?” he asks, begging her to understand and somehow forgive him.

“You saved my life,” she whispers. “I was dying.”

“I had to.”

“To save me. You had to steal my choice. My eternity, even. My lasting legacy as a Golden Blood. I can never be remembered as a symbol of light to the galaxy. When I die, I will never rest with _them_. The others like me.”

Shame burns the back of his throat. “No.”

“And any gesture I make now on behalf of the Jedi, or as a Jedi…will be a hollow lie. I can never go through the rites of purification, not even if I never tell another soul of our blood bond. Because you will know, and the High Priest knows. And that’s enough.”

The Jedi path must be established in absolute truth. To found it upon a lie would serve no purpose other than to bolster one’s ego, a quality that is rejected wholeheartedly by any true Jedi.

“Yes.”

“You did this. And the High Priest. To save my life? Because of the poison?” she asks again.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Rey. Sweetheart. You know I swore vengeance after that. I did everything I could to make it right. When we found it to be Canady’s mistress, I wiped out her bloodline for all time. If someone else is trying to hurt you now, you know I will destroy him and every drop of blood in his family line.”

“I need a moment alone, I think,” she says. She is quiet and calm, although he can see she is devastated. She glances significantly to his bed. “Might I have your permission to excuse myself to the orangery, Your Grace?”

“Rey.”

“Please?” She has nowhere else of her own to go, and he cannot imagine she will want to linger in these rooms.

“Of course you may.”

More words threaten to spill forth, but he cannot speak them aloud. He might give her all the apologies in the worlds, but there is nothing he can do to fix this. He knows how deeply she holds her faith.

And this revelation isn’t even the worst of it.

“Have you made a judgment, Your Grace?” Mitaka’s question pulls him from his distracted musings.

“I’ll have his head, then,” he mutters offhandedly.

“Your Imperial Majesty, are you quite sure?” Mitaka, who stands at his side, faithfully transcribing the proceedings, leans close and whispers, “The man’s only offense was cursing at temple.”

Dammit. Surely a fineable transgression at the worst.

“I mean to say,” Kylo proclaims in a carrying voice, “I will not have him lose his head in such a sacred place again. The fine is…” He turns to Mitaka who mutters a sum. “…twelve credits. And a prayer of penance.”

Technically only the High Priest can assign penance, but the accused looks grateful to be leaving with his head attached and ought to know better than to curse at temple, anyhow.

Kylo’s face cracks into a wry grin as he recalls Rey swearing and flustered in the middle of their Coronation.

But his grin falls away all too quickly. He’s bored out of his mind and the queue to the throne is already out the door and halfway down the palace steps outside.

It’s been weeks since his revelation to Rey and she’s closed him off altogether, subdued and sad. She swears she is not angry with him for what he did, explaining after she returned from an hour in the orangery she did not blame him at all, she was only stunned at the news.

Even weeks later, however, he can tell she’s distraught, and he tries to comfort her as best he can, although he knows any hopes he might have held for any kind of physical reunion must be tabled indefinitely.

Naturally, a pious and devout servant of the Jedi path will be troubled to learn she cannot be buried on sacred ground. And she has always made it a point to remind him of her religious importance and value as a symbol of holiness to the people of the galaxy.

To his surprise, she’s not offered any further arguments on wearing the collar or even castigated him again over the Old Laws. Publicly, she’s playing along, even if he can see the pretense wears on her. But true to her word, she is a Golden Blood and she understands the value of presenting a united front.

It’s helping.

Hosnia is wavering, particularly after Kylo sent a secret regiment to rout the Resistance embedded there. It will take time to root them all out, but they are making good progress and it’s weakening the system’s ability to mobilize. Rey’s information couldn’t have come at a more auspicious time.

Despite this, his days are long and filled with perpetual duty. And now he’s lonely and bored and wondering why his grandfather ever bothered dispensing justice personally to the people when, as Rey said, they ought to be able to rule themselves, at least in these smaller matters.

 _I will need to find someone trustworthy to whom I can delegate some of this,_ he decides before turning to Mitaka. “I find I am missing my wife, Mitaka. Call for her to attend me.”

Perhaps the afternoon might be more entertaining if he has some company on the dais.

Soon enough, Rey enters from the small antechamber behind the throne, carrying Hope. A footman sets several plush cushions at the foot of the throne, and she takes her seat without fuss, though he was half-hoping she would decline the cushions and sit in his lap, instead.

Now he supposes he’ll be tormented by the sight of the back of her neck and her bite scars, which have faded to a lovely silver. His fingers itch for wanting to sweep aside a stray wisp of hair, reminding him he can only look but cannot touch.

He does his best to swallow his lust and issue decision after decision on trivial matters, with occasional interjections from Mitaka. But his mind is elsewhere, constantly returning to that day, weeks ago.

She has yet to mention wanting another baby again, nor has she given him permission to touch her since the day before that, at their Coronation.

At his feet, she sits poised on her cushions, and when the most exciting thing to happen after an hour is that Hope falls asleep and Phasma comes to take the child to bed, Rey shifts restlessly.

“My love, if you wish to go, you certainly don’t have to –”

“It’s all right. It’s good for people to see us.”

“Very well.”

She’s been listening keenly to each petition, and he’s beginning to recognize when she agrees or disagrees with one side of an argument from her body language. And he can feel it through their bond, too, ever so slightly, as she relaxes her guard.

More often than not, he asks her recommendation before dispensing each verdict and finds her sense of judgement fair and level-headed. He would happily execute whomever she asks, if she would but unfreeze a bit, but she remains cool and aloof.

Until.

The queue has waned to a final case and the light is fading with the late afternoon.

Mitaka leans in and declares, “Baron Tarlis from the Taris system.”

Kylo perks up. Taris is in the Outer Rim, and he’s recently received whispers from Hux and several other advisors of the place being a possible hotbed for Omega trafficking, particularly after the reinstatement of the Lottery. Rey mentioned something to that effect long ago, he realizes, flooded with a sudden wash of inexplicable conscience.

“You are a long way from home, Baron,” Kylo remarks by way of an opening greeting, thinly concealing his instant dislike for the barrel-chested Alpha kneeling at the foot of the throne. The man has a peevish, continuously affronted air about him that reeks of the overly inflated self-importance often found in minor nobility.

Kylo’s assessment is confirmed when the Baron speaks in tones edged with entitlement.

“Your Imperial Majesty, under the Old Laws, I bring this Omega before you and demand recompense.”

Crawling behind him can only be the Omega in question, a young woman wearing a roughly formed collar attached to a heavy chain. She appears dirty and in some pain, and the back of Kylo’s neck tingles when Rey straightens her spine with a trace of sympathy he detects through their bond.

Kylo decides he will not invite the Alpha to stand just yet, and so the Baron must answer his next question from a kneel.

“To what recompense do you believe yourself entitled, Baron?”

“As Imperial Emperor, Your Majesty claimed ownership over all Omegas in the galaxy. Including this worthless slut.” The Alpha tugs on the chain and the young woman lurches and crawls forward to huddle on the floor at his side.

“I laid claim to _every_ soul in the galaxy,” Kylo reminds him with a threatening purr, wondering if the young Baron has any idea how much danger he’s in at the moment. “Yours included.”

“As you say, Your Grace.”

The man's admission appears respectful, but Kylo has spent many years in the company of fawning idiots like this. This Alpha obviously believes so long as he follows the script of proper address and formality Kylo will side with him.

Kylo hardens his voice into icy sternness. “I seem to recall charging each Alpha to care for my property well, and with the most chivalrous courtesy. This young woman does not appear to be well cared for.”

“And so, I have tried, Your Grace,” the Baron replies, his voice sliding into unctuous remorse. “But she has run from me three times now, and refuses to recognize me as her master, though the laws clearly state it is so.”

At his feet, Rey is fuming, dark magic seeping from her and causing the great chandelier overhead to flicker dramatically. Kylo knows he must handle the situation quickly and decisively before she accidentally zaps someone’s head off.

“So, you are married and mated, then?” he asks with silky curiosity and a drop of sarcasm. “I confess I do not see evidence of a bite from up here.”

“She was promised to me by her father, Your Grace, and legally betrothed, but she has yet to hold still long enough to swear the vows.” The Baron gives his chain a yank and the girl at his side yelps at the unexpected rebuke.

Kylo clenches his teeth together, and Rey turns and scowls at him, evidently furious and silently demanding he _do_ something.

_You don’t believe him, sweetheart? Neither do I._

“What do you think on the matter, my love?” As he knew it would, the endearment takes the wind out of her sails. A little.

“I wonder if they are not married then why she’s wearing a collar and a chain,” Rey hisses stiffly, belatedly adding, “Your Grace.”

“The Empress asks an excellent question,” Kylo intones. “Why are you chained, young lady?”

The Omega’s head snaps up in surprise, but Baron Tarlis speaks first, “Twas the only way I could get her here, Your Grace!”

“Speak out of turn again, Baron, and I will be most displeased. I assure you, you do _not_ want to see me displeased.” Each softly uttered syllable strikes like a hammer blow, nonetheless, blunt and sharp, and Kylo pushes a wave of his own magic through the room, a malevolent blast of chilling wind to accompany Rey’s sizzling ire.

The Alpha stutters wordlessly, and the Omega cowers.

Rey whispers, “You are frightening her, husband.”

“Where are you from, girl?” Kylo asks more gently to the Omega. “You may stand. It’s all right.”

The girl shuffles awkwardly to her feet, trying to bow and maintain respectful eye contact at the same time as answer him, obviously enormously intimidated by the proceedings.

“From the Talinn District, sire,” she mumbles.

“He says your father promised you in marriage?”

“Pa sold me!” she cries wretchedly, her accent heavy, but her distress no less evident. “He said I _had_ to! That ‘is will outweighed mine, even if I never wanted this stinky ol’ Baron.”

Outraged, the Baron in question blusters, “Sold you? I gave your father some money to ease the sting of parting with you is all.”

“He’s lyin’, he is!” the Omega adds. “I was already promised to my Mick. Besides, this one’s been buyin’ up a ‘hole harem all for hisself. Already ‘as three other mates, and ain’t none of ‘em love ya.” The onlooking crowd mutters, and the girl turns on her accuser, growing bolder as she senses the tides turning in her favor. “You got no rights to put a collar on me!”

Gape-jawed and red-faced, the Baron sputters, “You can see she’s out of control and needs to be contained. I’m only trying to bring order – ‘tis no different than the chain on your own Omega, Your Grace!”

“Indeed?” Kylo snarls, instantly quelling the crowd’s chatter. Rage floods him. “Baron Tarlis, speak another word without invitation, and I will personally remove your tongue from your head here and _now_.”

The Baron turns pasty white and the Omega beside him grows wide-eyed at the palpable menace flitting through the Hall.

Before anyone can continue, Rey breaks in. “You are mistaken, Baron Tarlis. My collar and chain are not meant for my _containment_ , nor subjugation. I wear them willingly and gave my husband my express permission to put this collar around my neck.”

The crowd stills and she goes on, “This is a symbol of my husband’s duty to me, and a demonstration of his sole assumption of responsibility for my welfare. I must believe he will do everything in his power to protect me from harm, and I have no doubt in my mind he puts my safety above all else. I fear I do not see the same intention reflected in your own behavior, particularly as she is so clearly unwilling.”

From his knees the Baron shifts awkwardly. Rey lifts her chin, daring to look over her shoulder and meet his eye. Kylo’s blood pounds in his veins, knowing what it must have cost her to defend him thus and vowing to make it up to her. Somehow.

“Baron Tarlis. The Empress and I demand an explanation for this outrage. You may speak.”

“They’re _property_ , Your Grace.”

“ _My_ property,” Kylo barks. “You have no legal claim on this girl. And even if you did, I would have charged you with caring for her and seeing to her best interests on _my_ behalf.” He lets his words sink in. “That being said, you’re right, Baron. Recompense must be made.”

The onlooking court and audience murmur at this ominous pronouncement and scandalized whispers rush through the Hall.

“I will not tolerate any exchange of my property for personal enrichment. This young woman was sold to you illegally, and I see no evidence of your intent to put her best interests before your own. I would have her father brought before me for justice, as well. He violated the terms of my trust by putting his daughter into such inept hands. Remove that collar at once!” An Omicron rushes forward to obey the order, and the Omega weeps openly when the ugly metal band is taken off.

There’s a brief shuffle from the back of the crowd, and a deep cry booms, “Meggie! I found ya, thank the gods!”

“What in the name of Zeus is this?” Kylo gripes under his breath. But the answer becomes immediately apparent when the Omega spins and bawls, “Mick!”

Tarlis bellows over the racket, “But he’s a peasant! How can _that_ be in her best interest?”

The crowd parts and Mick, a handsome young Alpha, throws a cautious glance up to the throne and steps forward with a quick, fumbling bow.

“Beggin’ Your Majesty’s pardon, sir, but Meggie’s me girl. I come all this way to beg ya for ‘er. Only reason we ain’t together yet is I was savin’ up to get us a place of our own. But I love ‘er more’n I can say. I’m prepared to make ‘er happy, Your Grace. I’ll do anythin’, anythin’ you want. Would be right honored if ya let me have her.”

This time when Rey glances back at him, her eyes shine with righteous command. Kylo already knows what she wants, as does the crowd below. Everyone waits with bated breath for him to render a decision.

He gives them all just enough time to settle before declaring, “Let it be known the buying and selling of Omegas in any form is strictly forbidden. The Lottery permits the Crown and the Crown _alone_ to re-parcel Omegas as I deem fit. None other may act in my stead on this matter. The Laws are clear. You Baron, for illegally seizing and imprisoning _my_ property, shall bear the full sentence for your crimes. Any holdings in your possession are hereby restored to the Crown.”

Two Omicrons step forward to tow Baron Tarlis to the dungeons, and Kylo addresses the ecstatic young couple, who are unable to refrain from embracing each other a moment longer. “Mick. I will relinquish this girl into your custody, and you will uphold the law or answer to me. As reparations must be made, Meggie, is it?” The Omega nods and bobs a hasty curtsy. “I would grant you and your betrothed charge of Baron Tarlis’s _former_ holdings.”

She flashes a genuine smile to Kylo, and an unwilling smile twitches his lips when she cries, “Thank ye, Your Grace, gods bless ya, and the Empress, too! We’ll be namin’ our firstborn after ya, see if we don’t.”

He looks on as, without further ado, she takes her Alpha’s hand, and he wraps her in a bear hug. Half the crowd sighs and the other half breaks into applause, and even Kylo can no longer keep a grin from breaking through when Rey shoots him a beaming smile.

She shakes her head and mutters, “That was far too generous of you, Your Grace. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

He stands and offers his hand to pull her to her feet, declaring the people’s audience ended for the day.

She takes his proffered hand and follows him into the antechamber behind the throne, pulse thumping wildly when he closes them inside the little room. He smells so good it makes her teeth hurt.

“You didn’t have to lie about the collar for me, Rey.”

“I wasn’t lying. I meant what I said.”

He grows sober. “It does my heart good to see you smiling. You’ve been so upset. Because of what I did.”

She _has_ been upset. It took her some time to figure out why Kylo’s revelation disturbed her so. She always held to the comfort that no matter what happened, no matter how much she sacrificed, she would always have herself, if nothing else. Her core identity as a Golden Blood and a Jedi.

And she sort of grew attached to the idea she might be remembered as a Someone.

“You did what you had to. I…just had to let some things go.”

“What things? Is it the Jedi burial? I can try to –”

“You were quite gracious to that Omega. She was a nobody, but you treated her kindly.”

He looks unsure he deserves the compliment. Tentatively, he says, “I would have you help me set the galaxy to rights. If you’re willing.”

“I should go…Hope will be wanting me soon. Wait. What?”

“Rey,” he starts, his voice husky and low and he’s so sinfully handsome, her heart is surely going to burst right through her ribcage. 

“Yes, Alpha?” she breathes, unaware she even used his designation until the word leaves her lips.

“You might not be able to leave a legacy as a Jedi, but it doesn’t mean you have nothing. You have me. And Hope…and…” He crowds close. Not touching her but definitely not giving her any room to maneuver. “That _other_ thing you said? About wanting another baby?”

“Another baby?” she parrots stupidly.

Slowly, cautiously, he sets his hands the door behind her, one to either side of her head. He’s close enough she can see the striations of color in his eyes, burnt amber flecked with glints of gold, and she breathes him in, that clean scent of fresh linen and his shaving soap, still pomegranate and sandalwood after all this time. The warmth of his skin, ever so lightly flushed, infuses her. She can smell his growing arousal, fueled by their proximity and the topic under discussion.

“I would discuss it with you…whenever you want. _Most_ willingly.” He won’t force the matter, but he’s letting her know he wants the same thing.

Before she can think of a reason not to, she inches forward. Just a half a step, really. Only enough to brush the front of her gown against the fabric of his jacket.

She licks her lips and meets his smoldering stare.

His eyes darken, and he breathes through clenched teeth, “Are you _deliberately_ trying to murder me?”

“No,” she sighs, standing on tiptoe and tentatively pushing her nose into the crook of his neck. His scent gland is right there, and she cannot resist it, couldn’t drag herself away if she wanted to, and she presses in and inhales, intoxicated. It fills her up, from the tips of her toes to the ends of her hair, and before she knows it, she’s kissing him there, on his gland, and he’s panting and crowding her against the door, hands still locked in place to cage her in. But she doesn’t feel trapped, not even when his lips move cautiously to claim hers.

No, not trapped at all. She’s free, flying like a falling star, and she opens for him, a long-ago lesson learned so exquisitely well, with payment in dividends after so long. He groans gently into her mouth, a broken sound, and she knows the power is all hers, all she has to do is say the word.

She traces the tip of her tongue across the seam of his lips and he’s trying so hard to be good, and she knows he wants her but he’s so terribly anxious. Worried he’ll not be able to stop himself and will take things too far and he can’t do what he really wants to do to her because he promised.

He promised, and he’s doing everything he can to keep his word.

And even if she cannot understand the why of everything else he’s done, she understands this.

“I thought you were angry with me,” he says, so close his declaration brushes against her lips. “Are you?”

“I…it’s not your fault,” she tells him. “It’s mine.”

“Darling girl, how can you still think so?” he coos, a slight frown creasing his brow.

Suddenly he’s kissing her, and it feels like that first time, scary and foreign and familiar and wonderful. It’s been so very long, a tear slips from the corner of her eye, and he catches it on his lips and leans back a fraction, only long enough to croon, “Sweetheart. Don’t cry…”

“Kiss me,” she begs, unable to find the words to make him understand what she needs.

“God’s teeth. Rey, darling, I…” he gasps and follows her order with all the eager abandon of a new husband, not the estranged one he’s been for so long. His whole, magnificent body quakes against her in his effort to restrain himself.

“Put your hands on me, Alpha.”

This plea does the trick like magic, and he doesn’t hesitate to cup his large, lovely hands around her throat and jaw and hold her in place so he can plunder her mouth, drinking her in as if she’s the sweetest nectar, the finest wine. He kisses his way down her neck, past her collar, all the way to her cleavage, and when his passionate caress meets the bodice of her gown, he slides his tongue over the swells of her décolletage, lightly. Reverently.

“Please,” she begs, wanting more. “ _Please_.”

“You smell…so good…” he grinds out between lavish, wet swipes of his tongue, and with trembling fingers he tugs at her gown, exposing her naked chest. Her nipples tighten and a heavy pulse of desire throbs between her legs.

“…Alpha…I _want_ …” she whimpers, and he cups an aching peak to his mouth and draws on her with such delicate ardor she goes limp, halfway to a faint. He holds her easily, her spine arched and head lolled back, and his dark eyes scald into hers when he bends again and sucks until she’s wet with slick and whining incoherently.

“…sweet…you taste so sweet…” He moves to the sip at her other breast and she sinks her hands into the thick silk of his hair, holding him in place and hoping he never, ever stops. “…gods, you’re delicious…”

Tenderly, he licks at the milky drops he’s coaxed forth and rucks up her skirts and when his finger slides between her thighs, she cries out, lost all over again at the deeper, more alluring thrill of his meticulous explorations.

Stroking her hands over his chest, she realizes she’s missed his firm warmth, yearned for the solid, fine heat of him through more lonely nights than she can count. Her fingers dig into his shoulders as he bends her back over his arm and slips his fingers against the wetness between her legs. He bows his head to take her into his mouth again and her eyes flutter closed and the world ceases to exist.

She can practically hear his heart pounding and taste the intensity of his hunger when the sound of voices just outside reaches them both. Heaving an aggrieved sigh, he pauses, then pulls back, eyes locked on hers.

Mortified and enthralled, she watches him painstakingly brace a fist against the door behind her, withdrawing from under her skirts only to suck his fingers into his mouth, not breaking eye contact. Liquid heat pools low in her belly and her mouth goes dry. He’s worked up a faint sheen of perspiration, and suddenly flustered, she drops her hold on him, accidentally brushing over the heavy bulge at his crotch.

“Oh, gods! I’m so sorry!” she exclaims when he draws a quick inward breath in obvious discomfort.

“Don’t. Apologize. For _that_.”

She swallows, fascinated, while he tugs her skirts into place and very gently tucks her back into the top of her gown.

“I…” She’s lost her momentum, and the voices are getting louder, closer. Just outside.

It’s Mitaka, looking for them.

He glowers at her, but she knows he is not angry. No, something else burns in him, alive and untamed and searing hot, and the same thing burns in her, something she’d thought long dead and gone, unrevivable. 

“I need you to run along to our rooms and make arrangements for a trip,” he rasps out in a voice husky with passion, his eyes glinting fire from beneath the lock of hair curling over his brow.

“A trip?”

“Yes, a trip. I think it’s high time we go to Naboo and enjoy that honeymoon we never had.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My loves. This was our longest chapter yet, with a TON of stuff happening. I truly hope you had as much fun reading as I had writing. 
> 
> As we build up to the finale for Part Two, I have to tell ya...I'm getting really darn excited for what I have planned. I think I will have Part Two finished in three chapters or so...and then we just have Part Three to go. For now, it IS taking me a bit longer to get this story updated, as I'm wrapping up my spontaneous and unplanned WIP, Body of Work, among a few other things. But stuff is coming, my dears. So. Much. Stuff.
> 
> HOWEVER, I am very proud to say that my inbox is getting down to manageable levels of chaos again, and I am going to try to do better at staying updated on replies, because ya'll fuckin' deserve better from me, and dammit, I'm gonna try. 
> 
> I hope you all are safe and well, and I very much look forward to your comments on this one. ;)
> 
> xoxoxo! <3


	38. Folly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Thou greybeard, old Wisdom! may boast of thy treasures;  
>  Give me with young Folly to live;  
> I grant thee thy calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures,  
> But Folly has raptures to give._   
>  **\- Robert Burns**

# Chapter Thirty-Eight – Folly  
  


Rey took his orders to heart and readied for the trip in a matter of hours, rousing the entire household into action with an efficiency he never would have managed on his own.

During the three-day journey to Naboo, by unspoken agreement, they did not recommence their torrid encounter from the throne room antechamber but instead reverted to an almost painful modesty between each other.

And yet.

He’s never longed for her more, particularly now, when he recognizes how the distance between them only accentuates the disparities between his hard-learned religious beliefs and the reality of what he can see with his own eyes.

Snoke was so very wrong about her.

_As was I._

_I have acted most grievously, treated her with unforgivable insult._

He's nearly swamped with suffocating guilt, a new experience for him. To make matters all the worse, he becomes so aroused in her presence, his mind continuously returning to her soft declaration from weeks ago, when she said she wanted another baby, he's avoided her for most of the trip, though he finds he cannot stray far from Hope for long.

Only now, as they near landing, does it occur to him he ought to commission a more appropriate vehicle for family travel, even if anything that meets the requisite criteria will never be as sleek and visually impressive as his flagship. Still, compromises must be made if he intends to spend more time with his family in the future and comfortably, at that.

Before their departure from Coruscant, Rey insisted on bringing Rose along, and since Kylo demanded they travel in all haste, his flagship was the logical choice for speed and comfort, at least for the ladies’ sake. Only when it became apparent there might be further delays so they could get everyone organized, in a fit of uncharacteristic chivalry, did he temporarily relinquish the master cabin to the ladies and the babies, finding himself once again crammed into a shared bunk in the soldier’s quarters, along with a small contingent of Omicrons and servants to bolster the royal family’s staff on Naboo.

It was small consolation to know he wasn’t the only one uncomfortable with the accommodations.

Phasma was granted a pallet in his cabin with Rey and Rose, and Mitaka spent most of the trip on the opposite bunk from Kylo, unflappable as ever.

Mitaka has gone to oversee last-minute preparations for landing, and Kylo stands on the bridge with Rey beside him, watching as they approach Naboo. Her excitement is a tangible thing in the air, and he reminds himself she has hardly traveled anywhere at all. Planetfall is a miraculous event for her to witness.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers in awe as Naboo turns from a blue jewel against the twinkling black velvet of outer space into a bright, blue-green globe, draped in frothy clouds.

They move steadily closer, and verdant green land masses appear outlined in pristine white sands through the swirling atmosphere. Rey, having never seen an ocean before, jumps up and down and claps her hands when she views it for the first time.

He murmurs a vague agreement and does his best to swallow the waves of lust pounding at him with relentless insistence. Her delight is too alluring, heightening her scent and drawing him in, even if he has not put his hands on her again since they left Coruscant, nor will he. He is determined not to touch her again without her express invitation, knowing it is small amends toward some serious, heartfelt reparations.

And reparations must be made.

It struck him with particular poignancy on his first night aboard ship, when he was surrounded by snoring men in the soldier’s quarters.

If he’d done things differently, he concluded then, there would be no need for him to travel thusly, and he might happily have spent the journey with Rey and Hope instead of pining in some horrid bunk, far too short for him and made all the worse by his realization of how deeply he’s missed his wife.

And since he couldn’t sleep, he could only spend his time thinking.

About how wrong he’s been.

Despite his regret, Kylo does his best to maintain a lighter, if not more sophisticated mien in the presence of his wife’s palpable joy. A smile twitches at his lips as he observes her.

“It’s so lovely!” she exclaims, turning to him with shining eyes. “Can we see it up close? The sea?”

“Of course, my darling,” Kylo replies, shifting Hope to his other side so he can take advantage of the opportunity to lean close and point out the castle, growing rapidly larger in the bridge’s viewscreen. Through their bond, he senses tension and he knows she is as acutely aware of him, his proximity and scent and underlying desire, as he is of her. “You see there? Our destination.”

“ _Ohhh_ ,” she sighs. “I wish Beebee could see it.”

Rey very nearly refused to board the ship when she discovered Beebee, only recently returned from gods’ knew where, had disappeared again. She fretted unreasonably over the girl’s sudden departure from the palace, and Kylo assured her he would leave his Knights behind to find the maid in all due haste. They will inform him as soon as she is located, and though he has not yet received any word, he knows if something happens to Beebee, Rey will be inconsolable.

“She’ll be all right,” he’d promised amid the hustle and bustle of boarding. “My Knights will find her.”

But Rey only returned his assurances with a fiery glare and warned him quite loudly she will have them all strung up by their thumbs if they so much as frighten the girl. He’d conceded with somewhat ill grace, not terribly pleased with her threats but unwilling to agitate a new disagreement when there was already so much between them. 

Besides, he cannot convince Rey to hate his Knights a little less and deemed it best to leave them behind. While their abilities to use magic can lend a slight edge in battle, no one can match his own powers, even with Coruscant at a distance.

And the Omicrons he’s brought along to defend them are nearly as good as his Knights in hand-to-hand combat, anyhow.

Not that he’s expecting open battle.

No, if anything, he anticipates something more subversive, especially after routing the Resistance from Hosnia. While Luke and Leia remain frustratingly hidden and no further assassination attempts have been made on Rey, nor has he seen any indications of foul play, the Omicrons still take turns tasting Rey’s food, and his, for good measure.

And she insists they taste Rose’s food, as well.

His Empress has become quite ferociously protective.

She’s always been so, especially with Rose, even the first time he met her, when her eyes had flashed daggers at him when she believed Rose to be under threat.

She regards Hope with that same, unshakeable ferocity, and he realizes sharply she’s never had any family to speak of, until now.

Of course, she’s going to be overly protective of anyone she loves.

Her obvious love for her maids and for Hope only further displaces Snoke’s teachings. Surely not _all_ women are born treacherous, manipulative liars.

Perhaps this is true of his mother, but he certainly cannot bring himself to believe such a thing of his own daughter. And the more he ponders Rey’s actions – even her betrayals – the more he finds himself doubting his master’s teachings, at least where women are concerned and his wife in particular.

Even Rey’s heartfelt pleas on behalf of the Omega Meggie were couched in genuine concern and not sprung from any selfish motives of her own.

Everything she’s ever done has been to protect another. Never herself.

Ever a shield for the weak.

And this is the notion that so pointedly highlights his own sins. Because, as much as he loves her, his own choices have only been those of a rash, selfish child.

_I’ve only ever been a monster to this girl._

_I’ve only ever sought to assert my own ends, for my own gain. How can I demand she loves and trusts me implicitly when I have never done anything to earn such sentiments? Other than keeping her in a gilded cage?_

Gods, even their wedding was a demonstration of force to meet his own agenda. And their mating. She never asked to be, as she once called it, his _broodmare_.

_Have I ever, ever given her a choice in anything?_

The ship drops into docking, and Rey tentatively braces a hand on his arm as they jostle onto the landing pad.

“Are you all right, Your Grace?” she murmurs. She would sense something off, of course, knowing of his conflicted memories of this place, his childhood home where he was known only as Ben Solo. She has yet to slip up and call him Ben again, and he finds himself suddenly yearning to hear it.

He nods and bounces Hope to cover the odd moment, pulling his frown into something approximating neutral congeniality with some effort.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he murmurs, surveilling her cheeks blooming pink from his endearment. “Only I think returning here has brought up a few bleak reminders of my very fraught past. But I shall endeavor not to dampen our visit with my moroseness.”

He lifts his lips into a smile and she returns it with too much understanding. Too much compassion.

_I do love you. Gods, I have so much grace to beg of you, and I know not where to even begin._

But he cannot pursue a course in this direction, since they must disembark the ship and greet the household staff, who are lined up across the old-fashioned drawbridge to the main “keep” and royal quarters. His banners fly proudly from every tower, and to his happy surprise, Rey’s Phoenix flutters whimsically alongside his Black Sun.

Dutifully, she greets each and every one of the staff, and he knows she will have all of their names memorized before the day’s end. Motherly pride radiates through their bond as each servant, down to the lowest scullery maid, is permitted to exclaim over Hope and greet the Princess directly, as is tradition.

For her part, Hope gurgles and coos most adorably and indiscriminately, showing no favoritism between the pompous cook and the humble gardener, unaware and as yet untouched by the taint of her father’s dark promise to Snoke, another self-inflicted problem Kylo must address.

He’ll need to find a way to explain the situation to Rey, and soon. She is too clever not to summon her own fearsome logic if he continues to force her to play the role of submissive, collared Omega.

Moreover, he knows damn well he needs her more than she needs him, if he’s really being honest about it, and she must know this on some level, as well. The people revere her, and if she casts off the Church on her own, they will take her side without question.

And it is this which fills him with the deepest shame, for he knows he hovers on the threshold of failing his people as profoundly as he’s failed his wife. 

_We must find a way out of this quagmire together. Surely, Rey will forgive me if I explain how frantic I was to save her. Mayhap I can find a way to tell her how desperately I loved her even then._

Once a few more elements are set into place, he can reasonably make his move. He’s already sent Hux to take care of one major concern, and when it is done, Kylo will rest much easier.

After he decommissions Starkiller, Hux will meet them here on Naboo and they can proceed. The weapon is too dangerous to use and Rey’s words haunt him constantly.

He cannot call himself peaceful and demand the galaxy lives in amity when he holds such a weapon of mass destruction, not to mention if his mother or uncle, or gods forbid Snoke, ever manages to access the weapon, who knows what devastation they might invoke in revenge or otherwise?

And Starkiller isn’t the only weapon of mass destruction he’s sitting on.

Rey herself is one, too, and the main reason he decided to get her away from Coruscant before he confesses the truth.

_And the instant we break from the Church I’ll have her remove that gods-knotted collar once and for all._

After an informal dinner in their rooms while the rest of the household settles in, Kylo suggested a game of Dejarik on his grandfather’s antique board, and Rey, skittish over the sexual tension swarming between them, jumped on the idea, not _quite_ ready to reinstate their physical relationship, although she definitely wants to.

At her agreement to a Dejarik match, Kylo ordered the game table moved to the balcony outside their rooms, a lovely spot to view the glittering ocean and lush surrounding countryside while also enjoying the planet’s temperate weather.

Though she will likely not endure another heat until she returns to Coruscant, a nonetheless heated anticipation tickles the back of her neck and has since they landed. Naboo is a low-cycle system and the moon hangs heavy and swollen over the edge of the horizon, a constant presence, yet one that does not tug and pull at everyone’s hormones the way Coruscant’s does. The ebb and flow of life are gentler here, the atmosphere more constant. Calm.

And yet her heart is filled with turmoil as she lingers over the lovely, old-fashioned Dejarik table and considers how to proceed with seducing her husband. She makes no mistake he is allowing her to take over the controls, so to speak, and she knows he will not advance without an explicit indication from her.

She is much more _exposed_ this way, going in with eyes wide open, fully aware she will not be able to later attribute her passion to factors beyond her control. For now, she is not under the influence of hormones or the moon or anything other than her own desires.

This evening, the object of said desire has reverted to the somewhat stern demeanor he displayed on Coruscant before their Coronation, gruff and grim, a sure sign he is covering his own emotions, although his manners are exquisitely unreproachable as always. He did remark he was happy to see his childhood home and promised to give her a tour of the beaches and ocean shores on the morrow when they are refreshed from their journey.

“It is so strange we do not host a ball this year,” she mutters abstractedly, moving her piece on the board before sitting back to let the evening breeze play at the gauzy material of her sleeves. She found a whole closet full of gorgeous gowns, well-suited for the planet’s climate, and she knows they once belonged to Padmé Amidala.

For once, she keeps any disapproving remarks over Kylo’s grandparents to herself. Besides, they left Coruscant in such a hurry, she isn’t sure she packed at all appropriately for their visit, and her pragmatic nature refuses to wear something of her own and be less comfortable when such a level-headed alternative presents itself.

“A ball would not be at all the thing, what with the Hosnian retrograde, my love,” he chides softly, though without malice. “And with everything Hosnia has put us through these past months, and their mourning the death of their ambassador, besides, I doubt anyone is in much of a celebratory mood.”

Oh, damn, she meant to turn the conversation away from troubling matters, not remind him someone is actively trying to kill her, most likely his own mother, if his earlier claims have any merit.

“Perhaps we might host something to celebrate the upcoming Coruscantian Solar Eclipse?” she suggests, and he grunts noncommittally, making his move.

“Perhaps.”

“Surely an assassin will not be so bold if we take proper precautions? Our people cannot see me hiding in fear, or they will forget me.”

“No. I suppose you’re right. Although the odds of anyone forgetting you are as likely as the Omicrons’ having a secret captain.” He smiles, resurrecting their old joke.

She leans forward and moves her _Molator_ and presses her fingertip to register the entry, leaving a tiny pinprick of blood behind, and teases, “I’ll take that to mean the odds are very high, then.”

“Never tell me the odds!” he mocks. Suddenly, he tenses and slouches back in his seat, unmistakably perturbed.

Somehow, she knows he’s thinking of his father.

And yet, she senses a barrier, too. A secret.

Hers.

For a short time, silence stretches between them, though she occasionally catches him staring. Whenever their eyes meet, he swallows. As if he is nervous.

Or sorry.

Or both.

_He has a secret, too. Some reason for all of this._

He begged her patience and understanding over the collar, and even if he was a bit of an ass at their Coronation feast, he must have had his reasons for what he's done. He does not take his actions lightly, the Old Laws, she realizes. And after he so graciously allowed Rose to come along and stay in his place on the flagship rather than put her and her baby in cramped quarters, she knows he is not the self-centered despot she’s previously accused him of being.

Again, she is reminded of what Hux told her, that the Resistance is a lost cause and Kylo’s reasons for reinstating the Old Laws are deeper than what appears on the surface.

Hux must be right. Her husband is planning something, perhaps using the laws as cover to protect her and Hope.

Yes. This makes sense.

It must be Snoke, threatening him somehow. It’s the only logical conclusion.

Thoughts whirling, she wonders how much of his loyalty to the High Priest is feigned, thinking again on his veiled warnings at the Coronation and during the feast.

_He’s been betrayed by so many. Everyone, really._

The only ones who haven’t betrayed him are his Knights, whom she despises, and his master, a cruel, manipulative despot.

It’s no wonder he grants them such leeway and permits Snoke to commit such atrocities upon his person.

Reading the general direction of her thoughts, he tells her, “Master Snoke is very powerful. One of the greatest sorcerers I’ve ever met or heard of.”

His statement feels more like a warning than anything, and she latches on to the distraction.

“One of? Who else?”

“Imperial Bishop Palpatine, of course.”

“You’ve really met His Holiness? What’s he like?”

Kylo ponders the board before glancing up with a wry smile. “He never leaves his homeworld anymore. But the holocron conversations we’ve had were intimidating enough.”

“Why does he never leave Exegol?”

“He is safest there, on the planet where his magic bloomed. As Master Snoke is on Mustafar. And you and me on Coruscant.”

His inclusion of her in this assessment alarms her and simultaneously makes her terribly curious. She has sensed her own powers coming to life, although they seem to be muted here.

“But you can do…er…magic? Elsewhere?”

His mouth pulls into a soft smile. “Certainly. Though I’m told it takes much meditation and practice to accomplish more than parlor tricks when not on one’s…”

He drops off, frowning. But then he lifts his hand and guides a piece on the Dejarik board into position and Rey startles, watching it move to a new square as if pulled by an invisible string.

He blinks at her shocked expression and his brows lift, instantly appeasing. Because they both felt it, that gentle tug, an almost sinister electric tingle. It does not frighten him, but it greatly disturbs her, and he reads her disquiet through their bond, sensing her confusion and panic at the strangeness of it.

“'Tis nothing to be afraid of. The Dark Side is as much a part of the Force as is the light.”

Instead of feeling soothed, she panics anew when she realizes how easily he might see _other_ things, how vulnerable she has allowed herself to become.

And if he learns her secret before she can tell him herself, it would be too, too cruel.

_I will never earn his trust if I cannot be honest with him. If only I can be assured he won’t destroy everyone in his path._

His anger could devastate worlds if he unleashes it again, and though his magic is infinitely more powerful on Coruscant, traces of it very much still flow through him here. Apparently.

His gaze drifts to the collar around her neck, and she comprehends she has some power of her own. If not as a wielder of dark magic or a religious figurehead, at least anymore, then politically, certainly. She still has influence she can use for good, even if the Jedi path is lost to her forever.

_I would help him “put the galaxy to rights,” as he said._

Warm, curling desire swells in her as she recalls the impassioned circumstances under which he spoke of it.

_So much time has passed since Hope’s birth. Does he really find me irresistible as he once did?_

Perhaps this last worry ought to be the least of her concerns, considering the simmering heat coming from across the table.

“I am excited to put my toes in salty water,” she tells him with a casual change of subject, even as she ruthlessly attacks his flank with a well-plotted gambit. “Perhaps I ought to learn how to swim.”

“I’ll teach you. I’m sure you’ll take to swimming like you do everything else,” he replies with similar insouciance, though he knocks her _Houjix_ out of play with a bit too much glee.

“You’ll pay for that!” she huffs, taken in a rare moment of surprise. This might just be the first time he’s actually caught her _truly_ off guard, and, even worse, she is sure he can tell he’s rattled her.

His face splits into a devilish grin and his chest puffs out with just enough conceit to provoke a distracted, rather breathless chuckle.

“Dammit,” she mutters, reevaluating the board and second-guessing herself for the first time in ages and ages.

“You are so lovely when you’re flustered, my dear. I’d keep you off balance indefinitely if only the rest of the galaxy didn’t occasionally need you with your wits intact.”

Her face heats from his insinuation and she sputters a helpless, “Pah! Need me?”

“I know I do. Need you.”

She stares hard at the board since she cannot look at him, convinced she’ll melt into a warm puddle if she meets his eyes which must surely be filled with the same longing he’s been emitting since their interlude back on Coruscant.

“It’s true.”

Astonished, she glances up. He returns her stare with such repressed hunger and penitence, it takes her breath away.

“If you want my help with the Skywalker game, just say so,” she laughs with forced lightness.

For weeks, his uncle’s last move has been the subject of much-whispered debate and speculation, although Kylo has wisely decided to wait before making his move, so as not appear too eager to succumb to Luke Skywalker’s provocation.

Luke calling him _kid_ on the day of his nephew's Coronation was a major insult, even if her husband never said a word about it. He didn’t need to, and she’s been furious with Luke on Kylo’s behalf ever since, although the only acknowledgment of the insult Kylo has made is to update his officially registered title from _Padawan, Lvl. Four_ to an infinitely more ominous-sounding _Gravewalker, Hades, God of the Dead_.

“Perhaps we should consider a friendly trade,” he returns smoothly. “I’ll teach you how to swim. And you can help me demolish my uncle on the Dejarik tables once and for all.”

God of the Dead or not, his eyes twinkle with unrepressed humor, as if he knows exactly what she’s doing, drawing the subject firmly away from his earlier remark.

Only she cannot ignore it. 

_Does he need me?_

They haven’t truly been alone with each other for so long, she can’t remember when. Even Hope has acted as a buffer since their reunion on Takodana, and the baby’s absence now only emphasizes just how much Rey relies on using the child as a convenient distraction.

But Hope is finally of an age where she sleeps through the nights, and even though she’s never before spent a night out of Rey’s presence, Kylo insisted rather adamantly their daughter is old enough to have her own rooms, at least here on Naboo.

Even if Rey privately agrees it is for the best and Hope is literally right next door, she knows her husband’s machinations to garner her alone hold a very _specific_ ulterior motive. Not that she’s complaining.

“Hope is settled into the nursery all right?”

“Indeed, and with enough nurses and nannies and guards to look after a small battalion of babies.”

Damn. His eyes are glowing at the mention of babies, and though she hasn’t broached the topic again, gods, it’s been on her mind.

“They’ll come for us if something is amiss with Hope,” he promises, misreading her bounding lust for worry. His eyes drop to the front of her gown and flicker back to hers again too quickly when she rather self-consciously pulls at the collar of her dress in a vain attempt to hide from his ravenous gaze.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” she breathes, almost positive she’s never heard him say the word _sincerely_ to anyone for anything since the day they met.

“I would not have you feel unduly pressured. Being here. With me.”

She blinks at him, flabbergasted.

“I know I said this trip was to be a honeymoon, but it’s become glaringly evident we’ve, that is to say, our estrangement has been obvious. Despite recent, er, things.” His voice has dropped to a low, hesitant purr.

“Things?” she parrots, thunderstruck.

_Is he talking about that last kiss? The one that prompted this whole trip?_

Her dumbstruck awe only coaxes him to continue his loquacious confession. “You haven’t mentioned wanting children again, not since you found out what I did, that night, about our blood bond, and with everything that’s come after, perhaps you…perhaps now that neither of us is under the influence of the…er, the moon?” he rambles. “And during the trip here you’ve certainly had some time to reconsider, and maybe you don’t want to now.”

“Want to?”

“To have another child. And that’s quite all right. I mean…” He licks his lips, and her mouth gapes open like a goldfish in a pond.

“Are you saying _you_ don’t want another child?” she blurts out.

“No! I mean yes, I _want_ to. But if you don’t…?”

“But I do!”

“I just want us on equal footing,” he insists. “This time. I would have you…I would not pressure you into it. With me. Wait. You do?”

She nods.

Her heart pounds.

His face has frozen into a mask of astonishment while it takes slightly longer for his hearing to catch up to his meandering speech.

Suddenly overcome with a terrible shyness, she glances back to the Dejarik game, unsure of how to proceed.

“Rey,” he whispers. “You’ve never in your life had the freedom to choose what you wanted for yourself. I would not demand you do so now. We can try. If and whenever you want to, is all. I’m saying,” he finishes lamely.

She cannot look at him, or she will crack and shatter like a pane of glass. Every lesson from the past pours into her mind, one after the other, an old defense against this new, untold threat.

_It is the mental game that will challenge you. Imagine living with someone, learning everything about them for years, knowing things, finding empathy or worse, sympathy. You will do this, but in your heart, in the marrow of your bones, you must keep your hope, your knowing and following the true path._

He mumbles, “I know you don’t…there’s no reason for you to believe me, or for you to think I can be anything but gods’-knotted, selfish mongrel, but dammit, Rey. I would let you decide, truly. If you only want to talk. Or. If you don’t want me in your bed. I’ll do anything.”

His stumbling dialogue is only matched in authenticity by the earnest expression on his face.

“Really?”

“I would have you be sure you really want to. And for the times when…when I did not offer you a choice, I would throw myself at your feet and beg for mercy.”

Suddenly her chest feels too tight, overcome by this heartfelt apology.

“There’s no need for that, I’m sure,” she replies too flippantly. “I did stab you with your own dagger, after all.”

“It was much deserved, I think.”

“You’ve already expressed your regrets. After. That night,” she reminds him. “You’ve kept your word and…”

“It’s not the same,” he chokes hoarsely.

_He means it. Every word._

And since she cannot speak for fear of splintering into a million pieces, she makes her decision. Standing up, she sweeps her clammy palms down the front of her dress and moves to take his hand. He follows with alacrity, hunger sparking off him like a wildfire.

She leads him through the arched doors to their rooms, a lovely sanctuary fit for a king or an emperor, to the large bed draped in frothy netting. It is centered opposite the balcony doors so one can lie abed and see the ocean.

But for the moment, she has no interest in the sparkling waters beyond. Mutely, she stands before him and gently begins to unfasten the buttons of his jacket, next untying his cravat and sliding it carefully from his neck. Belatedly, he opens his mouth to say something else, but if he says a word it will destroy her, and she cannot die, for she has much yet to do.

Much to live for.

_Hope is like the sun. If you only believe it when you can see it, you’ll never make it through the night._

_It must live in you, hidden, until the time is right._

Taking one last breath, she stands on tiptoe and pulls his head to hers, an invitation she knows he cannot refuse, and he does not.

His familiar taste nearly sends her to her knees, and he slants his lips against hers, a hesitant question she answers all too readily. More confident now, he drags her to him, chest to chest, and deepens their kiss until she’s gasping and doing everything she can to show him without words what she can never say aloud.

Not yet. But soon.

_Ben. I love you._

As reunions go, this one is most likely to end far too quickly from over-excitement on his part and possibly a bit of discomfort on hers, since it’s been a _while._ So he has never felt so conflicted when she tugs at his clothes in a not-so-subtle hint to move things beyond kissing, although Zeus knows he wants to toss her ankles over his shoulders and ravish the hell out of her.

Perhaps she believes speaking aloud will break whatever spell she’s weaving, but he will not begrudge her a lack of conversation when she pulls him close for another kiss.

Gods, how can he ever have thought this woman a traitorous whore when she is so clearly a heaven-sent angel, and a sweetly-scented one at that?

Her slender fingers slip through his hair and lightly brush over the scent glands at his neck, sending hot threads of passion twining all the way to the bottoms of his feet.

_Perhaps she’s more ready than I thought, though I’d hoped to seduce her with more tact than that bumbling apology._

He moans and tugs her closer, and she opens for him with such enthusiasm, the next sound he emits is a soft whimper, an embarrassing thing, or it would be. But she only smiles against his lips and wrenches more vigorously at his shirt, untucking it partway from his trousers. Suddenly he’s in a terrible hurry to get her dress off, a wispy, filmy thing, practically translucent, and frustratingly _secure_.

The sun is setting, sending a fading light into the room, and he has an immediate, overcoming desire to see her bathed in the final remnants of the day. Drowning in his own urgency, he finds a seam and yanks, and the damned thing won’t tear. Annoyed, he scrabbles around, seeking a different seam or weak point on the blighted garment, reluctant to stop kissing her sweet mouth for even a second and groping clumsily in his haste until she hints, “It ties…at the back.”

Grunting, he spins her and finds the tie in the fading light and paws at it like he’s in first rut. He jerks too hard and jostles her off balance, and she squeals and giggles. The impish little noise is quite possibly the most erotic thing he’s ever heard, so he steadies her again and tries once more to undo the tie with an ungentle pull until the dress loosens and she can help him slide it down her arms and over her hips.

The sun dips into the horizon and for the briefest of perfect moments, she is bathed in light, a riot of pinks and oranges and golden yellows casting shadows to dance over every enchanting inch of her.

He spends a long moment admiring the indentation of her waist, punctuated by the enticing dimples on her lower back.

_Ah, yes. I remember these._

His gaze lingers on the fuller curve of her hips, the sleek lines of her thighs, the firm roundness of derriere, hungrily re-learning the shape of her, the scent. He doesn’t touch or he will lose himself. He only observes the light of the setting sun as it kisses her goodnight, inhaling her mouthwatering warmth.

_Yours._

“Gods shame me,” he utters hoarsely, “that I have been granted a gift like you and never seen you for the goddess you are.”

“I…you truly think so?”

She does not face him, and a strange timidity drifts across their bond.

_Ah, she’s self-conscious._

“You have no idea, do you? How devastatingly lovely you are?” He peels off his shirt and presses close so he can finally feel the warmth of her silky skin against his. It makes him tremble like an old man, makes him weak like a child. His voice has grown husky for want of her, and he cannot find it in himself to hold back any longer.

She tilts her head and steals a glance over her shoulder, shredding his resistance when her gaze drifts lower and her scent grows warmer. Certainly, he’s disrobed in her presence many times since their reunion. And while he’s felt her surreptitious contemplation on him more than once since then, she does not hide it from him now.

Tenderly, he runs a curved finger up her spine until it bumps the cold metal encircling her neck.

The slight pressure elicits a small gasp, but he does not give her time for more than this as he noses at his bite marks, faded to a silvery-white, and memory rushes through him.

_I would grant you a boon, a wedding gift. Anything you wish that is mine to give, if only you but name the thing and cease your tears._

He can almost hear her say it again, and how he longs to hear it, though he will not demand anything of her now – he has no right to. Nor will he force her to recall the ugly night he took it back.

 _The only thing she’s ever asked of for herself was to call me by my given name,_ and his heart clutches in anguish as he realizes once more what a beast he is and how he's wronged her.

In quiet agony, he slides a palm lightly over her hip, holding her in place while he peppers wet, sucking kisses over her shoulders, and in a moment of impulse he unsnaps the collar from around her neck.

She draws a shuddering breath but does not speak when he tosses the thing aside and turns her to face him.

“Equal footing,” he repeats.

She looks him up and down and her glance falls briefly to the band of metal he just discarded.

The sweetest, most seductive teasing lights her eyes alongside a tinge of acrimony. “If this is the case, then perhaps _you_ ought to try on that collar for size, Alpha.”

“I will if you wish it.”

He grins back, knowing when she’s bluffing by now. But, he waits in an aberrant bout of patience rather than submit to the urge to pounce on her, even if he cannot help but lick his lips at her nudity on display in the growing dusk. Like a magnet, his attention is drawn to the luscious shape of her breasts, with nipples turned a dusky rose and puckering in the chill air.

The perfume of her arousal drifts to him and saliva floods his mouth.

He’s already got his trousers halfway undone when she stops him, and his heart thunders to a full stop.

_Oh, shit._

Something hot and horrible burns at the back of his throat. It’s been so long. Perhaps she doesn’t want him, changed her mind. Perhaps he’s misread the situation entirely.

“You don’t want…?”

“Oh! No, I do, I really do, I just…” She gives him a siren’s smile and every drop of blood in his body starts moving again. Rushing straight to his groin, actually. “I was…that is… _erm_ …I hope we might…”

_Gods, Rey, you’re murdering me, here._

“What is it, darling?” he asks softly. “Only name it and it’s yours.”

He bites his lips together and silently pleads to the gods whatever it is she wants is something he can give her.

“I was only going to say…I really _do_ want another baby. If that’s al–oh!”

He doesn’t give her another chance to talk, merely lifts her under each arm and tosses her to sprawl haphazardly on the bed with a muffled shriek. He strips faster than he’s ever done in his whole life.

"Yes?"

"Oooh! Yes!"

And those are the only words he lets her speak for the next two and one-half minutes.

“Uh,” he pants. “How _utterly_ crude of me.”

She’s still panting, too, and sniggers at the faint, horrified embarrassment creeping through their bond, quite aware of the sticky wetness dripping over her belly and thighs.

Having never been in this sort of tremendously awkward situation in her life, she senses from him that, unlike tasting her wine before sharing it with her, this isn’t at all the polite thing for a husband to do when making love to his wife, taking his pleasure without ensuring she’s had hers first.

But he is her Alpha and he was so obviously, painfully missing her…things just happened rather swiftly. She cannot find it in herself to be terribly upset, nor would she reprove him when his excitement is really quite flattering, from a certain point of view.

Deciding the moment calls for a bit of boldness, she chirps gleefully, “It’s just if you’re trying to get me pregnant, I think you’re supposed to manage to get some of it inside!”

“Oh? Is _that_ how it works?”

She dissolves into another fit of giggling, not helped at all when his damp forehead presses to hers and he tickles her ribs, just enough to make her squirm under his hot, sweaty weight.

“Well!" she laughs, "At least I know for sure you still think I’m appealing enough to–!”

His chest shakes against hers in silent hilarity, and she thrills that he finds her teasing so amusing.

“Did you ever doubt it? Your appeal to me?” he gasps with mock severity. “For shame!”

“Ought I to? Doubt it? I’m not in heat, after all. Per-perhaps that was just a – a s-s- _stroke_ of luck!”

His shout of laughter echoes through the room, and, inspired, she snorts, “You’ll just have to try again. Um. Whenever you can bring yourself _up_ to the task!”

“I’m sure,” he jests, “I can manage to _rise_ to the occasion just fine, you saucy wench. In a minute.”

Gales of mirth spill out of her. “Well you _are_ much older than I. Only, I thought _older_ people tended to do things more slowly, not quicker!”

Undone, he buries his face in her neck, nosing at the ticklish spot under her jaw until she howls and shoves half-heartedly at his shoulders.

His face splits into a wide grin she can see even in the deepening shadows of dusk.

“So, you would have me draw the next one out, my darling?” he croons. “I think I can manage that.”

“Perhaps you’re overly tired and you need to rest? I wouldn’t want to wear you out.”

“I’ll show you _worn_ out,” he growls, nipping playfully at her shoulder and swiping his tongue over the scented gland aside her neck until an altogether different heat licks flames into her belly.

“Oh…” she breathes, suddenly quite, quite distracted, especially when his hair sweeps across her face and he captures her mouth with his.

He sinks his weight down carefully, groaning low at the back of his throat when she parts her legs to give him room.

Bracing himself to one side, he skims his hands from her collarbone to her hip, then up again to oh-so-softly tease a furled nipple and kiss her as zealously as if he didn’t _just_ finish himself off all over her belly.

“You are so beautiful,” he says simply. Something wild and electrifying snaps over their bond, almost like magic, a tangible force.

Stroking a heavy palm down, he finds the copious evidence of his passion and smears it from her navel to her inner thighs before pushing a finger between her legs. A broken cry escapes her and he catches it on his lips.

Humor still lights his eyes while he watches her breathe and traces over her again and again. Inevitably, his regard drifts to her naked bosom. Of late, he’s been so enthralled with it, her _abundant_ cleavage, and whenever he covertly takes a peek, she can nearly feel it as surely as if he touches her outright.

The brief memory of what they did back on Coruscant, those heated moments in the antechamber, makes her body clench hard around his stroking finger. He hums and gives her a few languid caresses.

Unhurried, he bends to kiss her, then moves lower, tonguing at a sensitive nipple until she whispers, “…please…”

Dusk settles over the room and he obliges, drawing forth a few milky drops with several hot swipes of his tongue. Pleasure floods her and she clutches at his hair, holding him in place and hoping he’ll never stop. He goes on and on with the apparent intention of keeping his earlier promise to prolong this next interval. But urgency claws at her resolve and suddenly she wants, desperately, to feel him again.

“…Alpha, _please_ …”

“… _shhh_ , let me…have this…this _time_ …” he implores, kissing her wildly again until her head spins and she can only cling to him, her anchor in the storm.

And perhaps it’s been a while, and he’s not as polished as she knows he can be. Perhaps his hands shake with too much zeal, having abandoned the assured confidence of a more practiced lover’s touch in favor of unbridled devotion, but she understands.

With fresh insight, she waits patiently, allowing him to linger, giving him as much time as he wants.

Only after he’s taken his fill of touching and kissing and grinding his hips against hers in a simulation of what is to come, does he gently push inside with excruciating languor, taking her in a single, smooth stroke.

“Gods, you are exquisite,” he murmurs, withdrawing and thrusting again.

She moans and wraps her legs around his waist and holds him in place and he takes on a faster pace, increasing his efforts until they’re both dripping sweat and straining against each other and that sluggish, tortuous pleasure simmers under her skin and throbs between her legs.

“…gods, Ben…” she groans. “Don’t stop, what you’re doing…just like _that_ …oh, gods…”

“Say it again,” he gasps, a broken sound. “My name. _Please_.”

She can feel _him_ , his beating heart and pounding blood and boundless, endless passion, and she cannot hide from any of it nor deny the bonds that forge them together.

Even in the dim, her eyes blaze into his, and she hisses, “You’re mine, Ben. _Mine_.”

With a ragged cry, he shifts, ruthlessly molding her to him, beyond words.

It’s all right. They don’t need words.

He moves in her as if he would remind her how utterly she belongs to him, too, and she welcomes the intrusion, her Alpha. Her cries echo louder, his name ringing through the room until he hushes her with a feral kiss and brings her to the brink of paradise. There they hover, staring down eternity in each other's eyes, and when neither can stand it a moment longer, he tumbles them both over the edge.

Together.

In the trembling aftermath, she does not speak, only sobs against his neck and clings as he rolls them over. With him on his back, she can lie draped over him and drift into a half-sleep. He will rouse her soon for more, she’s sure.

Perhaps they’ve simply missed each other and want to revel in this reunion they haven’t fully earned, knowing tomorrow’s secrets must come to light as surely as the sun must rise.

For tonight, though, they can lie in the muted shadows and willfully disregard what trouble their pasts may threaten of the future, hidden from reality in the warm darkness and each other.

They finally emerge from bed late the next morning, although he threw on a dressing robe and went to fetch Hope when it was still quite early.

He insisted Rey stayed put and brought a freshly-diapered baby back a few minutes later so she could have her morning feeding in bed. This time, he made no secret of his insatiable interest, watching her until her cheeks warmed to crimson under his blatant, hungry stare.

And once Hope was finished and gurgling happily, he settled into bed beside her and tucked her into the crook of his arm on one side and Hope on his opposite shoulder and she drowsed, still tired from being, as promised, worn out.

At some point in the night she did gently remind him the likelihood of her falling pregnant again so soon after Hope would be very low, but he refuted that it was quite fun to try, and he needed to build up his stamina, anyhow, as did she, and who was she to argue against such logic?

Maybe she’s grown more sophisticated, honed by the realities of being a wife and a mother and constantly sharing her body one way or another for a while, especially in carrying Hope and after while nursing her.

Sex is a different kind of sharing, and one she is all too willing to resume. She knows now, what it is to feel his child quicken and grow inside her. And this time, he’ll know it, too, and see it happen day by day, in increments. This she wants almost more than another baby, to watch him fall in love with his next child, and if the gods bless them, the next after that and as many more as they can have.

But she cannot put off the future any longer, and so after lunch, when he takes them to the shores and wades in with Hope, Rey follows nervously behind, knowing her time is almost up.

It’s like a dream here, so beautiful.

The air couldn’t be more different from Coruscant’s relentless humidity or Jakku’s punishing heat.

Here the breeze is scented with salty ocean waves, unlike anything she’s ever smelled before, and the sun is tempered by shaded forests surrounding the castle, which is perched at the edge of an inlet. Most of the planet is covered in water. From a distance, the ocean is a fascinating marvel. Up close, it’s vaguely frightening.

But even more frightening is knowing she cannot put off the future any longer, especially when Phasma comes to fetch the baby for her afternoon nap, and she is left truly alone with him once again.

Procrastinating, she splashes in the waves, the salty froth tickling at her toes so delightfully cool against the afternoon sunshine.

The time and place are too perfect, and she does not know when another opportunity to come clean will present itself.

He is sprawled on a blanket by the sea, shirt off, and wearing short trousers, sunning himself like a large, sleek, slightly arrogant cat.

_He deserves to know the truth. And I cannot fight our bond forever._

His eyes flash amusement, attributing her nerves to the water, most likely, so when she finally wanders to him, she is yet unsure how to even begin her confession.

_You must be prepared to burn everything to the ground and leave nothing but ash behind._

But now she has something. A little Hellborn daughter she loves wholly and without condition. And a husband she adores more than life itself.

_He will not trust you until he believes he has wholly won you over to his side. If we were executing guerrilla warfare, such subtlety would not be needed._

_We could send you in to assassinate him, certainly._

_And we could win a portion of success that might last a for a small measure of time._

_But in the end, a new power would only rise up, just as he rose from the ashes of his grandfather’s empire. What we seek to do is restructure the course of history._

_But, once he trusts you, once he believes you are his and his alone, then you will make your move. And it will be a play to alter the course of destiny._

They couldn’t have planned for a better outcome, really.

_Leia never should have asked it of me. It was too much._

Haunted, she wonders if that first pregnancy would have resulted in a son or a daughter, and the knowledge of what she stole from him torments her.

And what did it cost?

Her eternal destiny, her Jedi legacy.

The Resistance is still decimated. Leia is disappeared, as is Luke. The Free Senate was officially annulled the instant that crown was set on Kylo’s head, and everything she’s fought for is ended.

He got his way in the end, and is it really so awful? Hux told her he believes Kylo doesn’t intend to fully implement the Lottery. Hux, who has fought for and done things just as ruthless and unforgivable as she, only to be met with the same futility.

And now look at him, married and mated to Rose, one of the Resistance’s best spies, and a father himself.

_Destiny comes for us all. And we must either rise to it or fall beneath its crashing waves._

She thinks again of the disfigured river of light on the Great Hall’s magic floor back on Coruscant, of what it really means, what they saw that night in the Underworld.

_The Death of the Gods._

_The Götterdämmerung._

The prophesied cataclysmic destruction of humankind.

But perhaps it isn’t the end of _all_ kind they saw. Just the end of her kind. Their kind.

The Gravewalkers and Skywalkers and wielders of powerful magics.

“You cannot be so morose on your very first trip to the ocean!” he exclaims from his blanket, scrambling to stand and take her hand. “Are you still angry with me?”

“Angry?”

“I was unforgivably rude at our Coronation feast. For the hassock, and…”

“Calling me _Omega_ in public?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you?” she asks, delaying the inevitable by only minutes now.

“Snoke was watching, and I…Rey, there’s something we need to discuss. About Snoke. I would not have secrets between us. Not anymore.”

Clearly, he has something on his heart, as well, but she’s sure whatever it is cannot be as planet-shattering as what she must reveal.

“I know.” She draws a deep breath and plunges in headfirst. “I need to tell you something first. About the night of our first ball.”

He shakes his head, confused, and the brightness of the sun seems to fade.

“I swallowed a potion that night.”

“Potion? You mean poison?” She can feel his burgeoning confusion and the weight of her dread as it sinks into him too, and she forces herself to say the words.

“The next day I had a miscarriage, only it was no accident.” Tears burn the backs of her eyes at the devastated look on his face. “There was no poison. At least, I believed the potion I took wasn’t meant to kill me.”

She puts the slightest emphasis on the word _me_. So he knows.

“But I executed your poisoner. Evidence was found. Canady's paramour.” He rakes her expression, seeking confirmation and finding none.

"It was false. Planted."

“The evidence was planted. Why?”

“We had, that is to say, your mother…” She tries again, growing more and more terrified at his calm acceptance. “The Resistance was gaining momentum at the time. We couldn’t… _they_ couldn’t risk the Old Laws…coming into play before they could…”

He cuts her off, sharp and angry. “I don’t fucking care about the Resistance.” His nostrils flare and the scent of brimstone fills the air. Instinctively, she pulls the Force around her like a protective blanket. “You almost died. Everything I did after, to save you, it was a result of your hand, not mine? Is that what you're saying?”

She nods but does not bow her head. She will face him and look him in the eyes. It is the least he deserves of her after everything.

“Innocent people were executed over this. Quite brutally, I might add.”

“I know.”

“You just sat back? Let it happen? You let me skin her alive and half her relatives.”

She presses her lips together and nods again.

"Oh, _gods_."

But he scrubs his palms over his face and eyes before he glares at her and shakes his head.

“And your accomplice? Who?”

“I cannot say.”

“Cannot? Or _will_ not?”

“Not an accomplice, but an agent of...your mother's. You cannot have it, either way,” she informs him, doing her best not to flinch under the monumental pain in his eyes.

Shadows that do not belong on this sunny beach begin to seep from the ground and swirl about his ankles.

Finally, he says, “Rey. Darling. I know my mother has unduly influenced you since you were a very young child. I want to believe you had no choice. I can forgive you for that. But I cannot forgive the one who forced the choice upon you. I will have a name.”

The ground quakes underfoot, and faster than lightning he unfurls a barrage of magic. He tries to dig in, to seek the answer, but she throws up a forearm, blocking the attack.

He tries again, snarling like a demon and furious.

A deep echo resounds through the air, like the gong of a bell, producing a shockwave of energy strong enough to temporarily shift the tides. But she holds her stance. For she is more than a match for whatever he throws at her, at least in this regard.

Magic bursts forth and she claws her hands up, forming a shield of sorts, and she has no idea what she’s doing exactly, or for how long she can hold it. Snippets of thoughts and feelings and words flash between them, but nothing she can use.

Oh, but the tormented fury rolling off of him tells her he longs to destroy something.

“I never meant to. To hurt you or anyone else.”

“I know. You’re sorry. I can feel it.”

He nods, breathing hard, and drops his hands in evident surrender.

In that briefest, barest moment of empathy, General Hux’s words ring through her head – _Not everything is black and white –_ and he sees it, clear as day.

Suddenly the barrage is back, ten times harder than before. She does not know how to tap whatever dark forces he’s drawing forth, and she falters for lack of experience more than anything.

His lips peel back over his teeth and he paces around her, circling like a hungry lion swiping at his cage, looking for weak spots. “Hux? It was him?”

“He never meant to endanger my life.” There’s no point trying to cover it up, so she might as well try for damage control.

“All this time?”

“He has his reasons.” This she also suspects, particularly after recent developments made themselves known on the journey to Naboo.

“I don’t fucking care,” Kylo growls. “He put you in danger and gave you a deadly potion. No matter that you foolishly swallowed it and caused…oh, gods you have no idea what you've done."

"I'm sorry!"

"My own general. Taking advantage of his rank. Nor can I forget how he’s abused his position with me, in my court. Conspiring under my nose. It’s indefensible. I am going to _obliterate_ him.”

Supernatural fire glints in his pupils, and a chill washes over her despite the sunshine.

“ _Ben_.”

Eyes gleaming red, he weaves threads of dark magic around her ankles, entrapping her in place, anchoring her to the sands.

“We have to talk about this! You can’t just–!”

“I can’t talk to you right now. I just…need to go.” He eyes her up and down and informs her, “You are unbalanced. Take care not to lose your head, or you’ll rip this planet apart. Do you understand?”

Stubbornly she sticks out her chin. "You can't just leave me here!"

He steps close and gives her a rough shake. She sniffs, furious that he refuses to back down or release her.

“Do you _understand_?” he bites out, inches away from her face.

“Please just let me go. We can talk.”

His face softens for half a second, and he backs away. But he says, “No. I…think I can forgive you, Rey. But this is something I need to do. I’ll come back for you, sweetheart. But it’s better if you stay here on Naboo while I handle this.”

“Please don’t go this way. Ben! Wait!” Whatever he’s done to trap her is beyond her ability to escape, and she resentfully considers she might be outmatched, after all.

And before she can stop him, he turns and jogs up the path to the castle.

“I’m not staying anywhere!” she bellows after him.

But he does not turn back, and when he reaches the last dune, she hears him shout, “Prepare my ship!”

And this is when she knows what she has to do.

The instant his flagship disappears from sight, the magic binding her loosens and dissolves, and she picks up her skirts and sprints to the castle, screaming for Phasma.

She’s met halfway there by the small contingent of Omicrons, clearly ordered to remain behind to guard her.

“I need a ship!” she gasps, panting.

“No one is to leave the planet, Empress. His Grace ordered–”

Unfiltered rage swaths into her heart, addictive and hot. She narrows her eyes, rotating her fist in the air from several feet away.

The Omicron drops to his knees, clutching at his neck as he finds an unseen hand clamping down over his windpipe.

Wild power fills her, rippling just under the surface with a bloodlust she cannot name. She can see it, though, smell it, feel it, that hard pit of darkness inside her that clamors so inelegantly for her attention, demanding she gives over and turns it loose.

Abruptly, several other guards stumble to a halt, taking in the scene with wide-eyed alarm, but making no move to stop her.

She has no time to ponder the magic flowing through her as she demands, “You _will_ have a ship readied for me and the Princess and my retinue within the next ten minutes or I will not be so generous the next time we encounter each other, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, Empress,” he gasps, bowing from his kneel before scrambling to obey her orders.

Phasma rushes forward and Rey can feel dark magic skittering off her, feral and unharnessed, and she knows if she cannot control it she will be too dangerous to board a ship.

She isn’t sure how she knows unless it’s because Kylo knows.

_Electrical interference is a very bad idea in deep space, my love. STAY._

Something through their bond flows into her, an overwhelming compulsion to obey, and she takes a controlled breath, blocking him out entirely.

“We are leaving Naboo, immediately. You have nine minutes to pack some essentials for Hope and ready yourself and Rose to travel with me in all due haste.”

Another dark surge rolls through her and she fights the impulse to sweep her hand across the sky and tear it asunder.

_Not now. Gods, not now and not here._

She storms up the path in Phasma’s wake and they part ways when they reach the castle. An Omicron hurries forward to tell her a ship awaits on the south landing.

“Phasma, don’t forget my collar.” Rey orders, faltering. “I’ll…need it.”

Phasma, for her part, only murmurs, “Yes, Your Grace,” and rushes away.

Eleven minutes later, she finds herself crammed aboard a civilian ship with a harried Rose, a very pale Phasma, and a handful of Omicrons.

“This ship is ready?”

“Yes, Your Grace, although I feel duty-bound to inform you, none of us are qualified to fly it. His Imperial Majesty took the pilots with him. I’ve only ever been trained in a capacity as a nav console operator. I would not risk your safety, nor that of the Princess. We need a pilot.”

She seats herself in the captain’s chair and claims with more confidence than she feels, “You have one.”

_I hope to the gods all those simulations I did back on Jakku were worth half a damn._

For his part, the Omicron doesn’t blink twice at her pronouncement, and instead, at her indication, seats himself beside her in the navigator’s position.

The ship is nearly fueled for takeoff, and Phasma paces the bridge holding a fussy, distraught Hope. It is well past nap time, and the poor child is unused to such tumult.

A shout from outside indicates the fueling is completed and the loading ramp locks into place as the exterior airlock hisses noisily. The ship is an old C-class freighter. Not terribly elegant, but fast.

The small crew, Phasma, and Rose huddle to one side. Three Omicrons, two ladies, and the babies.

_Kylo will murder them all if he finds out we traveled so lightly guarded. But we can worry about that later._

_First, it's time to call a bluff._

"Lieutenant. I need your help." 

She notices how the Omicrons discreetly glance to Phasma for instruction. It would be almost imperceptible if one weren't looking for it. But Rey is looking for it and raises a brow significantly. For her part, Phasma remains remarkably calm under pressure, even while holding the squalling Princess.

“Every single one of you is under _quo imperatoria_. As of this moment. If one word of what Her Imperial Majesty does or says ever leaves this ship, I will personally roast you over an open spit.” She turns to Rey and utters, "Your Grace."

"Thank you… _Captain_." Rey nods, and swallows her nerves, mirroring Phasma's calm even as her pulse races.

_Oh, we are so talking about this later._

“Lieutenant,” Rey commands, “I need an emergency ship-to-ship subspace connection to General Hux on the _Finalizer_. Use an encrypted name.”

The Omicron doesn’t give any indication of fear or anger over her earlier treatment of him, nor show any surprise that his Empress is aware of the highly clandestine identity of his Captain. Rey can apologize for choking him later, but for now, his fingers jump to make the connection and she decides a bit of fear doesn’t hurt, so long as it inspires him to hurry.

“What name shall I use, Empress?”

“Scavenger.”

Hux appears on the holocron communication screen seconds later, and he looks worried. Belatedly, Rey realizes he must think something is wrong with Rose or their son, Rax.

“General Hux. I need you to locate His Imperial Majesty’s flagship.”

Hux frowns but does as ordered. “It looks like he’s…headed right for us, Your Grace. Is everything all right?”

“No. No, it isn’t all right.”

“Why isn't everything all right?” The rising alarm in Hux’s voice does nothing to quell her own panic.

“Because,” she admits, “it means he knows about the thing.”

“What. _Thing_?”

“Remember that thing you gave me? Shortly after we met?”

“What, the phoenix box?” he snaps, more alert by the second.

“No.” She clears her throat, unable to say more in the present company. “The _other_ thing. I took it from your pocket at the ball? That time?”

“Gods. Tell me he doesn’t know about _that_ fucking thing.”

“Ahhhh, well he does…and I think he’s coming for you. Eh, _personally_. In fact, I’m quite sure he is.”

“Bloody fucking hell! Where’s Rose?”

“She’s fine, she’s here, she’s safe.”

“Bloody fucking hell,” he says again. He turns away from the screen, and she hears him bark a few hasty orders and knows he’s alone.

“General!” She tightens her voice. “There’s a way to stop him. But you have to do it.”

“How the _fuck_ am I supposed to stop him? Are you mad? Have you actually gone mad?”

“General, you forget yourself and to whom you are speaking! I will not remind you twice,” she warns.

“Forgive me, Your Grace.” Visibly, he masters his temper with supreme effort. “All right. What’s the plan? If I were interested in committing treason and gaining myself and half my crew a gruesome, bloody death, how do you propose we stop him?”

“Your ship has subspace communication capability with the First Order’s ship-to-ship network.”

“So what? You want me to _communicate_ with him?”

“I want you to transmit something to his ship for me.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“I’m on a civilian freighter, and I don’t have access to the network. You can hack his star cruiser, disrupt his navigational systems. I planted a back door access ages ago.”

“You _what_?”

“We are running out of time.”

“You want me to disrupt the navigational systems on the Imperial Emperor’s flagship while he’s aboard it?”

“And belay his order to decommission Starkiller.”

“I must ask you again, Your Grace. _Are you mad?_ ”

“General, I don’t have time to argue. You’ve already witnessed firsthand what I’m willing to endure to meet someone else’s agenda. Please believe I will be infinitely more resolute to meet my own. If I’m forced to act, I can guarantee a great deal of…how would you put it? Oh, yes. _Collateral_. _Damage_.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You _will_ do as I command, General.”

He pauses. “You’d never hurt Rose. You love her too much.”

“You’re right. But she is not the leverage I’m talking about.”

There’s a lengthier pause.

“It seems we _all_ have our weak spots, isn’t that so?” she prompts. “I finally found yours. Your _real_ one.”

“You can’t. You can’t _possibly_ know.”

_I suspected. And now I know for certain._

“She’s onboard this ship with me, General. _Do not_ test my resolve.”

Hux huffs hard, sending a crackle of annoyance over the com.

“This could end very, very badly for all of us. Not to mention billions of others.”

“It could. Or. It could end very, very badly for you in a matter of hours.”

“…if he captures me, you have no idea what he will do. To me. To my family.”

“I have some idea, I assure you. I strongly advise you do not allow yourself to be taken, General. Until we can sort this out. I just…I need a little time is all. Rebellions aren’t born in a day.”

_But revolutions are._

Hux shakes his head and she cuts him off before he can speak, knowing he will submit to rationality if nothing else. “You said he’s planning something. When you told me about the Lottery. I think so too. And whatever it is, he’s going to need his best General at his side. You’re the only one he trusts with military matters.”

“I highly doubt it now, Your Grace.” But though he mutters a few curses under his breath, Rey can see he is already punching buttons on the control panel in front of him to follow her orders.

He swallows and stares at the screen and his jaw flexes as he peruses the scene on the other end of the holocron. Rey can guess what he is looking at.

_This is what destiny looks like, General Hux. I will not waver from its course._

“Where do I reroute him?” Hux muses after another minute.

“Outer Reaches. Far from any stronghold of the Church’s. Give me at least a week. Two would be better.”

They cannot hold him off indefinitely. He’ll eventually figure out what she’s done and bypass the little overlay program she planted on his ship that day when he first kidnapped her from Jakku. It’s hidden in plain sight, but that doesn’t mean it’s undetectable.

But she only needs to buy herself enough time to set things into motion.

“It’s done. As you command, Your Grace. And gods help us if this goes wrong.”

“It won’t,” she promises with more confidence than she feels.

“Give my love to Rose. If I don’t see her again. Please tell her. As a favor.”

Rey nods and allows the barest smile, knowing Rose is standing just out of sight and listening avidly. Suddenly, she feels like a monster and placates, “You’ll tell her yourself again soon enough. It will be all right. You’re going to have to trust me. Oh, and one more thing.”

“Your Grace?”

“You will bring Starkiller to me.”

“Where?”

“Oh, you’ll find me. I’ll make sure the whole galaxy is talking about it.”

Rey disconnects the communication herself and turns to the bridge.

The Lieutenant asks with an admirable lack of doubt in his voice, “Shall I set our coordinates for Coruscant, Empress?”

“No,” Rey replies, having made her decision. “Contact Hosnia and inform them of their Imperial Empress’s imminent arrival.”

_And likely their very pissed off Imperial Emperor shortly after that. And then…oh, gods._

Rey exchanges a knowing look with Rose.

But she doesn’t speak as she pilots the ship out of the Naboo atmosphere and accelerates them into deep space.

“How did you know?” Phasma mutters quietly behind her.

“You talk in your sleep,” Rey replies, forcing herself to pay attention to the controls. She’s suspected about Phasma for days, ever since sharing quarters with her on the trip to Naboo. And after Phasma helped her escape Coruscant, it all makes a hell of a lot more sense.

“You intend to draw him out? The Emperor?”

“Not exactly.”

_Oh, but I do intend to draw one very nasty spider out of his web._

_One must take risks_ , San Tekka’s voice whispers in her head. _One must be resolute, unshakable in one’s course. Daring in the face of fear, cunning in the presence of doubt._

Any good Dejarik player knows she must control the center of the board if she intends to win.

And she cannot afford to lose.

Not this time.

**END OF PART TWO**

**Part Three Coming Soon: Rise of Destiny**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there. It’s been a while. Sorry about that. I’ve had a few other things come up, surprise, surprise, I know. But this has been on my mind, and I’m no George R.R. Martin (take that how you will), and I think you all deserve some more story. 
> 
> Phew! So, Part Two ends on a cliffhanger, and I am SO excited for Part Three you have no idea. SO MUCH is up in the air still. 
> 
> Like, where's Luke and Leia? And what's going to happen with Snoke? And Palpatine lurking on Exegol, you know that can't be good! Not to mention our dear Royals acting like silly, besotted hot messes...and Rey's magic...and they're headed to Hosnia, the galaxy's food supply...
> 
> Oh, and Hux, too...and Phasma...and so much more! Yah, I'm stoked. *winks*
> 
> You may have noticed a "final" tentative chapter count as well as a TITLE for Part Three - I am going to indulge myself and take back the term "Rise of" and try to make it make sense, so yes, this is meant to be a play on TROS. 
> 
> I have been gifted some absolutely outstanding art and moodboards for this fic, and I want to show them off, I just need to take the time to do it, so bear with me!


	39. Blood of Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Three: Rise of Destiny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the inestimable Ruth Bader Ginsberg who fought so women could have a right to choose. May her memory be a blessing. 
> 
> If you’ve ever had to make a really hard choice, especially _that_ choice, this chapter is for you.

## PART THREE – RISE OF DESTINY

# Chapter Thirty-Nine – Blood of Gold

The instant his cruiser left atmosphere, he regretted his hasty decision to run off, knowing full well the only reason he chose to go haring off after Hux was because it seemed infinitely easier than to stay on that beach and witness the raw suffering in her eyes. When she told him. When he comprehended the magnitude of what she has been carrying with her for so long.

An unimaginable burden made all the worse from knowing it is his fault for making her believe she had to carry it alone.

_She feared me and my retribution more than trusting me with the truth. Until just now. For years. And rightfully so. Had she said anything earlier, I likely would have torn her apart with my bare hands._

But just when he was ready to demand they return to Naboo, their ship veered off wildly course and they lost all communication.

Only after more than a full day do they finally regain comm control, though nothing else.

“There’s an incoming transmission, Your Grace. From Naboo, sent twenty-five hours ago.”

He listens intently as the message is decrypted.

_She fucking left Naboo. Of course she fucking did._

The hastily blurted dispatch from the Omicrons she left behind is garbled with other interference, but it’s enough for them to get an identification number on the freighter she commandeered and is apparently piloting herself, since Kylo knows for a fact every Omicron in the vicinity with flight experience came with him, in an effort to prevent this very complication.

Perhaps her education wasn’t so neglected, after all.

“Why do we not yet have nav control, Commander?” he bites out between clenched teeth. “And locate my wife’s ship, godsdammit!”

There’s a brief shuffle as several officers begin a flurry of movement, presumably to follow his order, though they have been working non-stop to override whatever gods’-knotted fuckery is forcing his cruiser ever closer to the Outer Reaches.

“Your Grace, I found something! It looks like a software patch from the First Order network.”

“What?” he snaps. _Too coincidental._ “Trace the source! I want to know who sent–”

“It came from General Hux, Your Grace. His personal codes were used.”

 _Hux_. So, this is his doing, then. Something tells him Hux would never act without provocation.

It’s her. It must be.

_What is your game, Rey?_

“We’ve traced the freighter, Your Grace, and they’re sending a distress call to Hosnia. They’re asking for asylum for Her Grace and Her Highness and they claim to have another Omega and a newborn baby on board, as well.”

_Ah. Of course._

It’s quite elegant, really.

_She has Hux’s wife and son with her. So, she’s holding them hostage?_

No. She would never do that. And why Hosnia? There must be more, something he can’t see.

If she’s gotten to Hux – and he’s certain she has – then Hux will have undoubtedly taken charge of his armies.

_Hux delivered poison to her, and yet they are working together?_

If Hux wanted her dead, he’s had ample opportunity to assassinate her. Hell, even Kylo trusted the man with her as he has few others.

“Commander. Locate the _Finalizer_.”

“Already done, Your Grace. On course to Hosnia, as well.”

“She’s working with him,” he mutters aloud, uncaring if it doesn’t make sense to anyone else. “Warned him I was coming.”

Even if Hux intends a military insurrection, he will hesitate to risk his family. He will take Rey’s side if he’s smart, which he is, under the guise of bringing forces to “defend” the Empress. He’ll amass as much power around himself as he can. Which is a substantial amount with Kylo out of the picture and no one to legitimately argue otherwise.

It will not even look like mutiny and treason. No, it will be easy for Hux to convince every other general and officer of lower rank to follow his lead under the guise of protecting the royal family.

Rey will have the Omicrons, too, enough to guard her personally once the reserve guard from Coruscant finds her, if they haven’t already. She’s borne a child of royal blood and they will be loyal to her in absence of his intervention.

From Hosnia, she’ll control the galaxy’s food supply, and the people will be doubly bound to her, if not by their love, then at her mercy if something happens to the planet and its interdependent systems.

The Resistance will hesitate to attack her now. Leia will think twice about having her killed, even if it was, as Kylo suspects, her intent to poison Rey at the Coronation feast. But his mother won’t try anything for fear of creating a power vacuum, and she’ll never attempt to take on the First Order as long as its forces are joined with the Sith Eternal.

_And Mother may yet believe she holds some influence over Rey._

Leia would think so with good reason. It looks as if Rey might be positioning herself to dismantle the First Order entirely.

However, he holds no illusions Rey is under anyone’s control but her own. And she’s utterly stripped him of choices in one fell swoop.

The question is _why_ , and he already fears he knows the answer.

Snoke will not be able to stand idly by and allow her to accrue so much power.

“I want a channel opened to Chancellor Villecham. And get me a ship-to-ship frequency to that freighter, Commander. _Now_.”

Hosnia is so massive that at first approach Rey thinks they are much closer than they are.

They’ve been allowed to pass through the outskirts of the system and head for Hosnia itself, even though local Hosnian military forces are stationed at strategic points, still on guard after their ambassador was poisoned at her Coronation feast.

Already, she can feel a strange, dizzying pull that sends shivers of tension dragging at her core. It’s powerful, whatever this force is, and she tries to recall what she’s learned about this planetary system from her schooling.

This is the hub of the galaxy’s food supply, an agrarian society once ruled by a giant species, now long dead, though they built massive structures which humans later assimilated after The Great Devastation had run its course.

Hosnians are known for their intelligence and adaptability, even having managed to escape much of the War of Skywalkers relatively unscathed.

This is mainly because the rest of the galaxy needs them too much, but also due in no small part to the wily and hard-hitting diplomacies negotiated by a succession of Chancellors over the past several dozen centuries.

But power loves nothing more than to gain more power, if Rey learned anything from her studies. And Chancellor Villecham is very, very powerful.

If he is wise, he will align himself with the stronger side in this dispute.

Nevertheless, he is an unknown, and has always publicly proclaimed loyalty to the First Order, although Hosnia frequently sides with the Free Systems of the Republic.

_I would be surprised if he were completely unaware of the Resistance’s recent occupation and subsequent evacuation from this system. I must not underestimate him. No one can play both sides for long unless he is very clever._

Fortifying herself with some difficulty, she steers them closer, vowing a hot bath and a full meal will be her reward after doing what she must to establish control first. She pointedly puts all thoughts of her husband from her mind and instead focuses on the task before her.

A few times on the journey here, she’s been tempted to break down and sob, to allow herself to feel the release of unburdening her secret, only to recall the ragged horror that bled from him so freely when he grasped the truth of what she had done.

His faltering exit was far worse than if he’d slapped her or rebuked her. She would have preferred he called her a faithless whore again and raked hell across the skies.

But he looked at her as if he didn’t know her at all and somehow at the same time as if he knew _everything_.

The first thing she saw in him was pity, of course.

He _saw_ and knew she had made a choice and yet she had no choice at all. It was all there, reflected in his eyes, a truth that – for the first time in her life – was so dreadfully transparent.

_You should have been raised as royalty on your blood status alone, and instead you were raised like a lamb for slaughter._

Through his eyes, she knew in an instant how unfairly she’s been treated. She should have been regarded as royalty the moment her blood was scanned and confirmed as priceless. Instead, she was taken, and hidden, kept away and manipulated, only to be thrown into the wolves’ den without hesitation or remorse when the time came.

_I want to believe you had no choice. I can forgive you for that._

He saw it and he felt her pain, a life of hardship, devoid of family and love, until her heart latched onto the only affection she ever thought she could have: The kind with conditions attached. For Leia Organa is not a woman to turn away from her ideals for the sake of mere mortals, Golden Blood or not. Her own son would know better than anyone. Because he was equally starved by the same woman, though maybe not quite as literally as Rey was.

He saw a girl who never had a choice, not even to access her own body, for it was always intended to be another’s property, never once permitted to learn or seek or know basic facts of life for fear she would grow too curious and, as she herself once so sagaciously put it, “steal something” that did not belong to her. And for this, he gave her compassion, and sympathy, and worst of all, mercy.

In a moment, he saw her as she was _that_ night, felt her conflict and determination and immediate regret for what she had done. She did not understand the depth of it until later – not until after Hope was born and she could see what unconditional love looks like – but in those moments after swallowing the potion, she felt acutely the pain of committing an irrevocable betrayal.

He felt it, too, briefly.

She held it for years and bore the silent agony of her deception alone.

He could see it all, her immediate, pitiful attempts to garner a few last, desperate moments with him that night, knowing she was bringing hell upon them both, he could see precisely when the nightmare hours of her miscarriage descended all too quickly, how hard she fought to keep him out, and why.

Because she was becoming too attached, even then.

And later, with Hope, she chose love. But there was no choice there, not really.

He saw everything.

On that beach, in that moment of confession, she _knew_ him. And he knew her and could feel at a visceral level, in the deepest well of his soul, what her choice really cost her.

Because he made the same choice, many years ago, when he set his own feet on an irreversible path. The day he executed his father.

He gave her compassion when she deserved none and only reprimanded her for nearly dying and for standing by and allowing him to shed innocent blood in the name of vengeance.

That it was all ultimately done for a failed, empty cause only pours salt on the wound.

He was not angry at the choice she made, but at what the decision cost her. For he knows well the price of carrying an unpaid debt etched into his heart for eternity.

The true price of blood.

_Everything I love betrays me._

_And I destroy everything I love._

But now is not the time to dwell on such things. She must bar him out, even over the vast distance of time and space, where she senses him, just at the edge of her consciousness, pounding at the door of their bond, trying to work his way in.

No, for now her choice is made and he cannot find her weak or doubting or she will never find the courage to do what must be done.

_Snoke must be brought down, once and for all._

Because even while Kylo saw her, she could see him, too. Solid and clear. And what she saw only confirmed her suspicions about his twisted relationship with the Church. And his master.

Which means there is really only one way this can logically go.

She must steel herself and tempt a certain priest out of his hidey hole, and she knows her strategy is sound, for it, like the rest of her, was forged in the burning hot sands of a barren desert planet. If anyone can make a plan sprout to life from nothing at all, it ought to be her.

_I’m named Persephone, after all._

She only needs time to set her board. And her husband needs time to cool his head and come to the same sensible conclusion.

She must trust he’ll arrive at logic sooner rather than later and that he will have faith in her, as well.

Only, he might be a little furious with her for a while.

_Gods, I only want to lie down and sleep and pretend I am back on Naboo._

But she cannot. Her hands do not falter at the helm of the ship’s controls.

Even so, Phasma must sense her disquiet and murmurs gently, “The planet is coming out of retrograde. The transition will cause some _disruption_ until it has passed into full anterograde.”

“Disruption?” Rey mutters. Beside her, the Lieutenant operates the nav console with a stoic face, though she knows he listens intently to his Captain’s speech.

“We must all stay alert,” Phasma says. “They’ve only just agreed to a military standdown after their ambassador’s assassination. Emotions will be running very, very high.”

Phasma’s words are more for Rey’s sake than anything, but they have a steadying effect, for which she is grateful.

They’ve been traveling non-stop at full speed for well over twenty-four hours, with Rose and the babies sleeping on a cramped storage trunk in the back cabin. Rey’s only concession to her own comfort has been to move from the captain’s chair to nurse Hope at regular intervals, keeping a sharp eye on the Lieutenant as he manages the ship’s controls under her direction.

“I don’t care about their emotions, so long as the palace has hot food and a soft bed,” Rey grouses, blinking her eyes to stay awake.

_Once we’ve landed, and I know the planet is secure. Then I can sleep. Not before._

She supposes they’ll be safe enough in due time. Hux follows just behind with Starkiller in tow, plus half the Sith Eternal and a very good portion of the First Order, as well, having taken charge of the armies under the guise of following orders to guard Her Imperial Majesty.

“Your Grace, we have an incoming communication. It’s Hosnia. They are granting us permission to approach and land at the main dock at Republic City.”

“Why not the palace directly?”

“Ehhh…” He punches a few flashing buttons in search of an answer, but her sigh of exasperation hasn’t fully left her when the Lieutenant alerts her to another communication.

“It’s coming from another ship. His Imperial Majesty’s flagship.”

_Oh, bloody fucking, gods-knotted hell._

“It’s His Grace Himself calling, Empress.”

_How the bloody fuck did he figure out where I was headed so quickly?_

If he’s already managed to restore communications after only a day, this does not bode well for her and Hux’s little stunt to set him off course. She curses every one of the Omicrons she was forced to leave behind on Naboo, knowing one or more of them must have made efforts to alert Kylo to her departure the minute she left atmosphere.

“I don’t wish to speak to him at the moment,” Rey asserts with an aloof coolness she does not feel.

“He’s…rather insisting you do.” Before she can stop him, the Lieutenant makes the connection and sends an apologetic look in her direction. He cannot ignore a direct call from His Imperial Majesty.

His voice crackles over the speaker, “I would remind you we are married, my love.”

“Pfft! Well maybe I want a divorce!” she exclaims flippantly, her mind in a sudden whirl.

His laugh is too harsh to indicate humor. “Over my dead body.”

Kylo’s face flickers onto her holo screen and the many, many light years of cold black space between them does nothing to mitigate the smoldering fury in his gaze.

“My darling girl,” he smiles, baring his teeth, despite his honeyed tones. “I thought I explicitly ordered you to remain on Naboo.” He is clearly holding onto his temper by a very frayed thread and Rey swallows her nerves when he purrs, “Where’s Hope?”

“Here with me. She’s all right,” Rey assures him. _Damn_. If he claims she’s kidnapped their daughter, it could cause all sorts of–

“You might pay attention, sweetheart. I’ve already alerted Hosnia to the possibility of imposters headed their way.”

“Imposters?”

“They’ve been instructed to escort you to Republic City, permit you to land, and take you into custody until I arrive to confirm your identity.”

_Shit. This won’t do at all, although if we are taken, we will be treated with caution, at least._

No one will dare put the Imperial Emperor’s wife or daughter in harm’s way until he arrives.

But she has no intention of being detained like a common criminal.

Promptly devising a plan to keep him out of her hair for a while, her hands fly over the communication panel – with a direct ship-to-ship link she can hack his network from here, if she has enough time.

_Let him talk._

“Tell me how to unfuck the mess you made of my navigation controls, and I’ll order the Chancellor to keep you in the seraglio at the palace and not a prison cell.”

 _A prison cell?_ _I don’t fucking think so._

She snorts, “You’re bluffing!”

“Am I?” Her heart skips a beat. She honestly can’t tell, damn him.

_Oooh, he’s furious._

She dons a mask of skepticism. “Give me a minute to think about it?”

Without waiting for his reply, she mutes her screen with the push of a button, keeping their connection open.

“Lieutenant? Advise Chancellor Villecham this ship carries the Phoenix Herself and Her Imperial Highness, the goddess Makaria, seeking refuge from Naboo. Tell him we ran into a spot of trouble there, and there is indeed an imposter, and his Majesty’s flagship was highjacked. Transmit my _personal_ communication codes and inform him he may confirm our identity on the basis of our imperial escort. They’re half a day behind us, and Villecham probably won’t know to scan for them until they’re right on top of the borders. You may give him their location.”

She flips on the screen to once again meet her husband’s diabolical sneer and braces herself when he croons, “Rey, what are you plotting? And where the fuck did you send me to, hmm?”

“Oh. You’ll see,” she replies vaguely, still frantically inputting commands into her holo screen until she finds her little backdoor program on his ship. Once she’s in, she keeps her expression utterly impassive. “You oughtn’t have tried to interfere with me here when you have your own problems, dear husband.”

“What?” His nostrils flare and she transmits a command to release an exterior airlock in a storage compartment on his flagship, praying to the gods no one is in that section.

There’s a loud a blaring of sirens on his end, and he bellows off screen, “ _Godsdammit! FUCK! Fix that bloody airlock, NOW!”_

“It sounds like you’re having trouble. Is everything all right, my sweet?” Deliberately, she adds too much sugar to her voice, knowing it will infuriate him and hopefully keep his attention on her.

“Rey–”

“The whole galaxy has seen us play Dejarik by now. I can outflank you in any situation. Don’t test me.”

She pushes another button and more lights on his side start flashing. She turns to the Lieutenant and mutters, “Use our uplink to jam his signal to Hosnia. Jam every channel but one.” The menace in her voice brooks no argument and he jumps to obey her.

“Yes, Your Grace,” the Lieutenant agrees, astutely realizing the danger closer at hand is in fact _not_ Kylo Ren.

_“Corporal! Repair that airlock this instant, or so help me gods!”_

“I hope it’s all right,” she continues in her overly-sweet tones. “I plan on doing a spot of redecorating around the palace at Hosnia while I’m visiting. From what I hear, the place needs a woman’s touch.”

She doesn’t give him time to ponder what the threat of redecorating could possibly mean when a fresh flurry of alarms begins to blare. He’ll figure it out eventually, and she doesn’t have time to explain–

_“We’re losing fuel, Your Grace!”_

Kylo ducks his chin and glowers into the screen. Even from quite a few light years away, her heart trembles. “We’ll discuss it shortly. When I arrive, my darling. Among other things. I’ll see you soon.”

“I don’t think so.” She smashes a button with her finger, perhaps more vindictively than intended, and sends another airlock door winging off into space. “You seem busy. Perhaps we should speak when you aren’t so distracted?”

 _“We must make an emergency landing, Your Grace,”_ says a voice off-screen. _“The ship can’t take any more of this.”_

“…oh, sooner than you think, my love,” Kylo breathes with such deadly promise, goosebumps rise on her arms. “You can count on it.”

There’s another crash and a panicked yell, but not from him.

No, he is as cold as ice.

Despite the chill of his wrath, she scoffs, “Ha,” but the screen has already gone blank.

After a minute of utter silence, Phasma interjects, “That was impressive, Your Grace. You once warned me I would not want to see you angry. I can see now you meant business.”

“This is only the beginning. Once he retakes control of his armies – and make no mistake, he will – we must be prepared.”

“For what, Your Grace?”

“For siege, of course.” Or worse. If something goes wrong, it could mean intergalactic civil war.

_If he chooses to fight me rather than join me._

Rey sighs, knowing a heavy fate descends faster than a falling star.

 _Hope is like the sun,_ she reminds herself.

“Lieutenant. I need to make one more call before we land.”

“Where the fuck are we?” he snarls to Mitaka. The alarms from Rey’s little stunt have finally quieted and he sincerely hopes she is finished wreaking havoc on his flagship.

“Outer Reaches, Your Grace.”

“How long until repairs can be made?”

“Three days, if parts can be found.”

 _Zeus’s bloody knot_. “What about another ship?”

“Those are hard to find in these parts. There’s…ahhh…only one person who knows for sure, Your Grace, or so he claims. He’s hailing us on our only open channel.”

“Who is it?”

“Er, a Lando Calrissian. He says he knows you?”

“Where?” It’s the only word he can get out.

“A space station not far from here. Called Cloud–”

“–City. Yes. I know of it.”

Mitaka studiously avoids eye contact and peers at his holocron pad, instead. “He says he will meet you at a tavern there. Called The Lover’s Knot. He says to wear a disguise. It is best if you are not recognized, Your Grace.”

“Tell him I’m–” _Godsdammit_. “Tell him _Ben_ is on his way.”

Speaking his old name after so long feels strange on his tongue. Certainly, he’s heard it many times since he granted Rey permission to use it, especially now that she’s taken up saying it again and he is disinclined to tell her to stop.

But he can’t remember the last time he spoke it aloud himself.

Yes, he can.

_If it will please you and make you smile, you can call me…Ben. But only when we’re alone, all right? I have a rather fearsome reputation to maintain._

His wedding day.

They make an emergency landing at Cloud City, and given the poor condition of his flagship, he doesn’t bother to disabuse the mooring boss of the initial impression they are pirates who recently acquired an “abandoned” bit of property that once belonged to the Emperor himself.

None are willing to tangle with Kylo, as a very distinct danger is shearing off him in waves, not to mention the highly menacing Omicrons he’s brought along. Although he has ordered them to remain with the ship, he has them all wearing soldier’s uniforms and full helmets to cover the surgical scars on their necks. This somehow makes them appear even more pirate-like.

After making arrangements to replace the supplies Rey sucked out of the airlocks and for the fuel she dumped, not to mention ensuring repairs will proceed apace, Kylo dons a hooded cloak and straps a blaster around his hip.

The blaster is more for show than anything, although perhaps it is best if he refrains from shooting bolts of lightning from his palms on the space station. Besides, any sign of magic is sure to be a dead giveaway, and he isn’t sure he is ready to be recognized until he finds out what Lando wants.

He already has a guess as to how Lando knew how to reach him.

It’s Rey, obviously.

If her hint at redecorating the palace means anything, then she means to assume the Chancellor’s role. A traditionally Church-appointed position.

Logically, the only point of doing this is because she intends to break from the Church herself. She’s beaten him to the punch, and Snoke will not hesitate to step in.

Snoke’s motives are still not yet apparent, but Kylo cannot fathom any other explanation other than the old priest plans on leveraging an Omega’s most basic, savage instincts to protect her young.

_A feral Omega is a ferocious animal, and in such a state can be a very useful tool…nearly unstoppable once set into motion._

Hope also makes excellent bait, though Rey does not fully realize how or why. Though after the Coronation, he has grown more and more certain that Snoke intends to use Hope to control Rey.

He’s already concluded that Hux does not intend her harm, nor him. The man has been close for a very long time. If he wanted her dead, she would be.

Still, he wants to tear his General’s throat out and watch him drown in his own blood.

A nearby electrical panel sizzles and crackles and a warning bell dings, and Kylo walks faster through the space station.

For now, he must resist murdering Hux, the wiliest general in his army, who, despite his unconscionable treachery, has shown great loyalty to the First Order and to Kylo personally.

He doesn’t question his choice, as infuriating as it is.

He will need to let Hux go. It is no small comfort to know Rey and Hope will be under the protection of the cleverest general in the First Order. But Kylo once believed compassion and mercy were for the weak and now he knows it is infinitely more difficult to grant mercy when he wants to rip a man’s head from his shoulders.

 _Fuck_ , he’s never wanted to destroy something so badly.

He makes his way to The Lover’s Knot tavern, a truly despicable hive of scum and villainy the likes of which he’s not stepped foot in for a good long while. He receives a few sidelong glances but only because he cannot disguise his size or the fact he is an Alpha, and, suddenly nervous, hopes his business with Lando will be brief.

“Ben!”

Lando’s voice after all this time is a shock, but he hides it along with his desire to cringe in shame. Lando Calrissian was his father’s best friend. Surely Lando is aware of what he did.

He _must_ know. But he looks happy to see him and waves him to a table at the corner of the bar.

A wide smile breaks over Lando’s face, but he does not stand or show overmuch respect, greeting him as if they are equals. Which is probably a good thing for cover, even if the lack of deference irks him.

Only Lando could get away with slapping him on the shoulder and remaining seated in his presence without invitation.

“Have a whiskey,” Lando invites, gesturing to a semi-dirty glass on the scarred table.

“I’d rather not,” he grunts.

“You’ll draw more attention if you’re not drinking. Although I doubt this swill comes close to the fine liquors you’ve probably grown used to?”

Meeting the man’s dark eyes, Kylo lifts the glass and swallows the alcohol in one gulp, forcing himself not to choke on the searing burn as it rips a dagger of fire down his throat.

He returns Lando’s grin with an open sneer and Lando shouts, “Another!”

“How did you know how to find me?”

“Your wife called. We’ve met before, I don’t know if you knew?” Lando is not intimidated in the least and Kylo momentarily considers striking a bit of fear into him when he recalls just when Rey and Lando last met.

When he was smuggling his pregnant wife away into gods-knew what danger. Fury roils in his chest.

“I’m aware.”

“You kids need to get your marital squabbles worked out before we all end up dead,” Lando grunts.

“I’m working on it. It would help if I could speak to her directly.”

“Yeah. Heard she did a number on your ship.”

The barkeep approaches and sets another round of shots before each of them.

Kylo eyes his drink with a bit of dread, but when Lando takes his, he can’t refuse.

“She did a number on a lot of things.” _She’s about to rip this entire galaxy to pieces if I can’t get to her fast enough. Or Snoke._

“She’s playing you, son.”

The next drink goes down easier. “You shouldn’t call me that. I don’t deserve the title.” _Not after what I did to Father._

Lando bolts his own whiskey and leans forward, suddenly intent. “I reckon he didn’t give ya much of a choice.”

“What?”

Lando narrows his eyes. “I knew Han Solo for a very long time. I guess he never did anything he didn’t want to do. He knew what he was getting into when he went to Coruscant.”

“He didn’t.” No man would willingly walk into an ugly death like that.

“Well, I respectfully disagree. I guess you didn’t have much of a choice if you were gonna put a stop to the spying.”

Unsurprised that Lando knows so much, Kylo clings to the slight justification. “Mother’s spies would have ruined me within the first year of my rule.”

“I know it. So did your pa. You needed to make an example. Something to ensure nobody would try it again.” Lando stares him down while he lets this set in. “Your mother was already insisting Han go. But he knew.” Bleary-eyed, he opens his mouth to argue and Lando hardens his voice, cutting him off. “Don’t you dare downplay your pa’s freely given gift so you can live the rest of your life feeling like shit over it. He knew. He knew Leia, and he knew you. He knew a lot more than…a lot more than you realize.”

He shakes his head in disagreement and Lando goes on, relentless, “You’re a father now, yourself. You know what you’d be willing to go through for your own child. Tell me you wouldn’t die for your little princess and I’ll call you a liar. Han felt the same way about you, even if he was a shit about showing it. And you’ve done a fair job of taking the galaxy in hand. For the most part. We’ve had more peace than not, despite the Scrums rioting across the galaxy.”

“And now we’re on the brink of fucking war again because of me,” he confesses harshly. _And innocent Omegas being collared and chained by my own orders._

“That’s your wife’s doing, too. Not just you,” Lando drawls. “And I expect she was provoked or has good cause for all this kerfuffle?”

He grunts. Lando isn’t wrong.

“Why am I even here?” he changes the subject.

“Like I said. She called. Wanted me to stall you for as long as possible.”

He nods morosely, not even able to work up any anger over it.

“She’s the best strategist I’ve ever seen,” he tells Lando, taking the next drink straight off the barkeep’s tray without waiting for the man to set it before him. He slugs it down, only spilling a little.

He can threaten all he wants, but unless he wants to spill blood, there’s no way Lando is letting him leave until he’s damned good and ready.

“You don’t think,” Lando inserts delicately, “she really wants you dead, does she?”

“Nah. If she wanted me dead, I’d be dead.” His head feels a little fuzzy. “She…loves me.” Saying this groundbreaking revelation out loud does nothing to quell the guilt in his heart, but Lando doesn’t seem to notice anything profound just occurred.

“I figured I’d ask. She wasn’t too happy with you the last time I saw her.”

“I know.” Gods. Does Lando know fucking everything?

Lando peers at him with a bit of concern. “You’re sure she doesn’t wanna kill you?”

“Yep.” This last comes out on a slight belch. Fuck, this whiskey packs a punch. “Another!” he shouts, and the barkeep scurries over. He snags the front of the barkeep’s shirt and pulls the man’s face close. “Keep them coming, my good sir. I don’t want to see you…see me…see another empty glass.”

“Yes, sir!”

The barkeep scuttles off for another round, and Kylo lifts his glass and slurs, “To my wife. The most ruthless, cunning bitch I’ve ever met.” _And, gods, how I love her._ Lando toasts in silence and sips his drink a bit more judiciously, but Kylo throws the next one down like water and glares. “How long did she think you’d keep me here?”

“Two weeks.”

His exhale puffs his cheeks and he stares remorsefully at the tabletop. Two weeks.

Lando’s next words cut into his thoughts.

“But I’m a terrible romantic.”

“You are?” His heart starts beating again and he perks up.

“Yeah.” Lando winks and suddenly he is as sober as a priest. A Jedi priest. “I don’t think people in love should be separated for more than…two days? If we hurry.”

“Two days? You must have a damned fast ship to get from here to Hosnia in two days.”

“The fastest.”

Which is excellent news, even if Kylo has a sinking suspicion Lando is referring to a _particularly_ swift bucket of bolts. As much as it pains him to delay his reunion with Rey, he shakes his head _no_.

“It’ll take a bit longer, I’m afraid. We’ll need to stop somewhere first so I can pick up something I need.”

Lando’s eyebrows raise to the top of his forehead in silent question, and he mutters, “Mustafar. There’s something in the vaults I have to fetch.”

As she flies closer to the planet, she does not mistake the miles and miles of seemingly empty patchwork fields for a non-threat. The population is simply less dense, given geographic range of the planet.

But while Hosnia might appear as mostly fields from space, it also hosts a thriving metropolis that serves as a massive, intergalactic transportation hub. From there sprouts an organized series of spokes from the main wheel to spread across the rest of the planet like a spider’s web.

Hosnia has no oceans, but instead contains a vast series of underground aquifers. Water is brought to the surface by canals and irrigation systems built by the race of giants who inhabited this place before The Great Devastation destroyed them all.

Initially, Hosnia was a distribution center for the Lottery as well, and Rey makes no mistake these old ties still influence the governance of the entire system. In many ways, Hosnia has always been granted more leeway and exceptions on the basis of its location and extreme value in exporting all kinds of goods.

In the days when breeding and manual labor were paramount to sustain the rest of the galaxy, the Chancellors of Hosnia were well known for their harems. Fertile Alphas took many mates and often produced families numbering in the hundreds. And while the Lottery technically applied to everyone, Hosnia somehow always managed to reap the benefits more than most.

Of course, they gave in other ways, arguably. Certainly in grain and staples production. And as Hosnia's families grew and expanded, eventually covering the planet, their influence grew, too. Centuries and millennia later, they became an essential component of the galactic ecostructure.

San Tekka used to say, “When Hosnia speaks, kings tremble and even the gods tip an ear in their direction.”

After a harried approach where she almost – almost! – forgets the landing sequence and smashes their freighter into a nearby moon at a quarter light-speed, she sets the ship lightly onto the designated landing pad at Republic City as if she’s been flying all her life.

Her hands are still shaking when she is greeted by a small, official-looking cadre of well-dressed civilians, accompanied by a menacing squadron of soldiers. And several dozen, nay several hundred lookers-on in the background. She’s been directed to land in what looks to be a fallow field, and she knows every inch of the planet’s arable land is either used for growing food or transporting it.

Rey is acutely aware her own appearance does nothing to help confirm her identity. She still wears her now limp bathing dress from the beach at Naboo, her hair is likely a fright, and she isn’t sure just what happened to her shoes. The only adjustments she’s made to her appearance is to snap her collar around her neck again, knowing this will add to her credibility, as much as it galls her.

She cannot dismantle the Old Laws in a day, after all.

In an attempt to calm herself, she takes a few deep breaths. But she is hungry, sweaty, and exhausted. She has been awake for well over a full day, nursing a cranky baby, plotting galactic domination, and doing her best not to murder them all with her flying, though this last part she keeps to herself.

Not to mention she’s rather at odds with her husband, whom she loves beyond distraction but who apparently needs a kick in the hindquarters to bring whatever it is he’s been planning to a head.

She descends the ramp alone after ordering Phasma and the guards to wait inside the ship until she’s sure it’s all clear.

An impressive gathering of curious bystanders, soldiers, and well-dressed dignitaries awaits her, and a handsome, older man approaches. He wears his authority well and Rey knows immediately this must be Chancellor Villecham himself. She can see instantly by the look on his face and the less than obsequious manner of his greeting this person has no intention of meeting her demands.

He intends to follow the Emperor’s orders, then.

_I don’t think so, Chancellor._

“Oh, good. Someone sent an escort,” she says haughtily, cutting off Villecham’s obvious aim to take charge of the conversation. “You may accompany me and my entourage to the palace immediately. I will reside there until further notice.”

“Forgive me, my lady, but we’ve been instructed to detain you here until your identity can be verified.” The quiet inflection of his voice tells her he isn’t impressed by her at all. Her temper slips a notch.

_A strong first impression is infinitely better than a weak one._

“On whose authority do you intend to hold me?”

“On my own,” he asserts. “Granted by the High Priest himself when I was appointed–”

“Who are you again?”

He draws himself up and lifts his chin to an almost-insolent tilt.

“I’m Chancellor Villecham,” he tells her, exasperated. As if she should know. “I’m the one in charge.”

Her temper loosens from its leash and it is too easy to fill herself with lush strands of magic. Her gaze burns with an otherworldly gleam, and she drags on her power until starlight and shadows swirl at her feet. From every hard lesson earned under the blistering Jakku sun to a future scribed in prophesies made at the dawn of ages, she pulls the Force around her like a cloak that fits her perfectly. The scars marring her neck and upper thigh mark her as one mated to a god, anointed an Empress and born with Golden Blood.

She is unmatched. A Phoenix. A creature of light and rebirth and everlasting flame.

A goddess.

_You will bow before me._

Under her ethereal stare, he shrinks, then stoops, then bows. It isn’t enough, not nearly enough, and so she holds her regard upon him, unflinching, and compels him until he drops into a kneel. A breath behind, the knees of every onlooking peasant, noble, and soldier hit the ground, as well.

And only when every mortal’s nose is touching the dirt at her feet does she reply, simply, 

“No, Chancellor. I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Part Three.
> 
> In the initial Dejarik game they played together, she first established her General’s battalion before making a small preemptive strike at his flanks. Then she moves into a Bishop’s hold, forcing him into a defensive position, rather than offensive, and moving them into mid-game far sooner than he was planning. (It’s in Chapter Fifteen.) 
> 
> In chess, mid-game is typically defined as the killy part (okay, okay, this is my definition), when pieces start falling at a more rapid pace until only the final, most important pieces are left standing in the endgame. 
> 
> I really, really hope any chess enthusiasts out there are picking up on the subtle (or not) so subtle way I’ve set up this story. Because it’s really a battle between two queens (Rey and Leia) to protect the kings, which typically don’t see any play until very late in the game, (in this case Luke Skywalker and Palpatine). You might be thinking, but wait! What about Kylo? Shouldn’t he be a king?
> 
> And I would answer no. He is very much an active piece on the board, formed by opposing forces to be used, just as Rey has been. In my mind, he is a knight, at once able to move more fluidly over other pieces, but restricted by the number of squares by which he can move. Interestingly, the only move a chess queen cannot duplicate is that of a knight.
> 
> (FYI, my knights are my favorite chess pieces, and my children know this about me, much to my dismay, and are therefore relentless in their attempts to capture them as fast as they can whenever we play.)
> 
> So, I love asking people: What is the most powerful piece on the board? Inevitably, they will answer “the queen” to which I will disagree. The most powerful piece on the board is the king, since this is the piece that determines when the game ends based on his own position and because all the other pieces ultimately work to protect him.
> 
> In other news, what they did to Ben Solo in TROS was fucking criminal damage, and no I still have not watched the movie, but I’ve seen the effing spoilers, okay? So, yeah, uh, SPOILER ALERT: We are getting him in the Falcon. Because fuck, and I cannot stress this enough, canon.
> 
> I also have strong feelings about JJ forcing the scene of Ben talking to his father one more time in TROS when LANDO was right fucking there and alive and everything. Another criminal waste of opportunity.
> 
> I guess I feel like it was kinda cheap to make Han/Ben basically repeat the same scene in TFA: We already know Han Solo loved his son. 
> 
> I want Ben Solo to live the rest of this life not KNOWING for SURE if his father forgave him but forcing himself to have FAITH that he did. And I want Lando to assume the fatherly role, instead, because in this world when you die, you only leave your shadow behind. 😉 
> 
> I'm going to go drink some wine and ponder the fate of the world. Apologies in advance for editing errors. 
> 
> To my fellow American readers: If you can, please, please vote. There is so much at stake.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Twitter for fic updates, DMs, and occasional thirst tweets and rampant horniness! [@beegood_amy](https://twitter.com/beegood_amy)  
>   
> My works:
> 
> A/B/O:  
> [House of The Rising Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21512809/chapters/51276604) (A/B/O, Epic Scale Fantasy with a Canon-flavor, Read the tags, WIP to resume soon)  
> [The Wickedy Witch of Carnegie Hill](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26450107/chapters/64445872) (A/B/O, Enchanted AU, Fluffy, Sweet, Low-angst, WIP)  
> [First Knot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20978156) (Preylo, A/B/O, quick and FILTHY, COMPLETE)  
> [Bad Neighbors](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17874359) (A/B/O, cop/lawyer, enemies-to-lovers, COMPLETE)  
>   
> Darker Stuff:  
> [Dirty Deeds](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/28675278) (DARK, BREYLO, BENLO, one-shot that may be more someday)  
> [creep](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/25554175/chapters/62008714) (Stalker, DARKFIC, Thriller, WIP)  
> [Body of Work](http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/24723547/chapters/59762740) (Soulmates, Killers, COMPLETE)  
> [Little Animals](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19902718) (DARKFIC, SMUT, Read the Tags, COMPLETE)  
> [GatorWestern](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15502323) (Vampire/Horror, COMPLETE)  
>   
> Short and Smutty:  
> [Double Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19903981/chapters/47144941) (Breylo, Benlo, Absolutely raunchy filth, smut, COMPLETE)  
> [Smoke Gets In Your Eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19231210) (Short fic, stoner soulmates, filthy smut, COMPLETE)  
> [Fire Down Below](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20659043/chapters/49061249) (Filthy two-shot, Porn AU, crack, COMPLETE)  
> [Freak Show](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1098873) (Circus AU, Comedy, one-shot series)  
> [Special Order](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16836562) (one-shot)  
> [Urinal Cake](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17412686) (one-shot, no urine or cakes involved, I swear!)  
>   
> Long and Plotty (and also Smutty):  
> [Say It With Feeling](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18710287) (Funny, Escort/Sugar Daddy AU, smutty, COMPLETE)  
> [Music To My Ears](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15121106) (Classical Music/Assassins AU, re-booting WIP)  
> [Devil on the Dark Side](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16287023) (Modern Hades/Persephone Fairy Tale WIP, one more chapter to go!)  
>   
> Also: [Into That Good Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22437334/chapters/53609257) (Sweet, Rated M, Emotional, COMPLETE)
> 
> Currently, Cake, American Stars, Knotting Hill, Every Which Way But Loose, and The Secret Flower Club are all waiting behind hidden doors until I wrap up a few other WIPs.  
> Although my WIPs are in varying stages of progress, I can promise none of them are abandoned, just resting. :)
> 
> XOXO!


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